SWMflgj 




imm^SSi 



r&: 







FROM AN ORIGINAL PAINTING BY THE LATE JNO. B. BLAIR. NOW IN POSSESSION OF E. MARSH. 

"Hurled as many deadly arrows deep 
beneath the monsters' wings." 

—[Page y.\ 



POEMS OF THE PIASA 



BY 



FRANK C. RIEHL 



t*i6 H f ty. 



£EB 18 1896 



ALTON, ILL 








IJ 



MELLING & GASKINS, PUBLISHERS 
1896 






COPYRIGHT 1896, 

BY 
FRANK C. RIEHL. 



MELLING & GASKINS, 

Printers and Binders. 



Unto my mother anb my roife, 

drum hearts of momanfcinb, 
3n tt^at they bare beliereb in me, 

Clnb nerer faileb to finb 
Some points of merit in my work: 

With fervency imbibeb 
3n mutual gratitube anb lor>e, 

(Ebis volume is inscribeb. 



PREFACE. 



r^\F this little venture into the field of modern 
^^ literature, appealing to the generosity of the 
public in general, and of his friends in particular, 
the author has only to say that it is issued 
under the advice and at the earnest solicitation 
of a few persons who believed that the poems 
contained therein are of sufficient merit to deserve 
to live, and to have a wider circulation than that 
afforded by a single publication in the local 
papers or current magazines. 

Of his own thought toward the work, he 
cannot give better expression than by quoting the 
following crude lines, which he wrote when a boy 
of 20 years: 

O, could I but command the words 

With which to give my feelings wing, 

I'd sing as blithely as the birds 
Of every fair and noble thing ; 

Of all that glads the human soul, 

And makes life better, I would sing. 



I'd sing of friendship, fair and bright, 

Of wayward souls by love redeemed ; 

Of countless themes whereon the light 
Of poets' lamp hath never beamed, — 

If only I could write the songs 

Which, musing, I have often dreamed. 

But no, I never can command 

The words to set my feelings free; 

Stern Fate, with her resistless hand, 
Is constantly restraining me, 

And I can never be the half 

Of what I fain would wish to be. 

Yet is there many a tender strain 

That ne'er escaped the warbler's tongue; 

There's many a harp of finest grain 
That ever must remain unstrung, 

And many a vision haunts the brain 
Of poets, that shall ne'er be sung. 

A boundless gulf must aye remain 

Between the longed-for and the real ; 

Earth's feathered songsters strive in vain 
To warble forth the joy they feel; 

And every song the poet sings 
Is but the shade of his ideal. 

And I will bid my muse sing on, 

Although 'tis but a simple strain ; 

Content if, when my life, is done, 

And I have left this world of pain, 

Some fond soul, pausing at my grave, 

Shall say: "He has not lived in vain." 



The poems of Indian legend are given 
prominent place because they are deemed to be 
somewhat novel in themselves, and to possess a 
peculiar local interest in the vicinity of the birth- 
place of the writer. 

The other selections are made from many 
hundreds of poems, all of which, presented at one 
reading, might prove an overplus that would pall 
upon the taste of the kindly disposed and aesthetic 
patron. 

Cordially yours, 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



INDIAN LAYS AND LEGENDS. 

The Legend of the Piasa ; i 

Song of the Setting Sun 9 

The Legend of Lover's Leap 13 

OUATOGA 20 

The Warrior's Lament 21 

The Crossing of the Sioux , 26 

Illiola's Penance 31 

On a Picture of Sitting Bull 37 

Rich ardville 38 

A Duel on the Plains 47 

Pawnadawa's Vengeance 50 

Passing of the Monarch 63 

"Pilot's Guide" 65 

VERSES ON VARIOUS THEMES. 

The Foil of Fate 73 

The House Where I was Born tj 

Pearls of Poesy 79 

' Mid Scenes of Youth 80 

A Lesson for Lent 82 

Christian Womanhood 83 

By the River 85 



I'm Silver Weddinc && 

Thk Two Anglers 9* 

Mamma's VALEN riNES 93 

Thb Nobler Creed 94 

Out of the Past 96 

kLESCENCE 97 

Blightkd 99 

The Coming of the Bride 101 

The School -House on the Hill 104 

Glad Easter Time 107 

A Campside Reverie 109 

The Fish We Failed to Land in 

The Huntsman 113 

Not in the Past 115 

Monotone 116 

The Image Breaker 117 

To a Tree Frog 118 

The Lesson of O >lumeus 119 

Ball.-, Brave 121 

More With Rejoicing 123 

Life's Rural Way 125 

Like as a Star 127 

What Might Not Be 129 

Heroes Unrevealed 130 

In the Old Prison Cemetery 131 

A Word 133 

The Submerged City 134 

A Threnody of Tears 135 

A Song of Labor Day 137 

Deferred 139 

Sing We of Love 141 

The Silent Sentinel 143 



The Music of the Wheel 144 

Hypocrisy 145 

The Battle of Brains 146 

In After Years 148 

When the Housewife is Away 150 

A Winter's Storm 151 

If We Were Young Again 152 

The Rose 154 

September Symphonies 156 

The Fairest Scene 157 

Pilgrim's Prayer 158 

In Late October 160 

A Picture 162 

A Plaint of the Ancient Greek 163 

The Poet and His Song 165 

Appendix 168 



Indian Lays and Legends 



THE LEGEND OF THE PIASA.* 

CITTING lonely by the hearthstone, in the 

^ fire's ruddy glow, 

Musing o'er strange circumstances that trans- 
pired long ago, 

While the winds outside are sighing through the 
tree -tops cold and raw, 

I recall the Indian legend of the dreaded Piasa. 

Ere the white man ever gazed upon the Missis- 
sippi's flood, 

When the Indian was sole monarch in this 
Western solitude, 

This dread thing — bird, beast, or devil, so the 
olden legends say, — 

Cast its shadow o'er the valley on a sultry 
autumn day. 



*Note I.— Appendix. 



Just above where the Missouri and the Missis- 
sippi blend, 

And the latter swerves to southward, as the 
bluffs abruptly end, 

There the monster made its lodgings in a cave 
beneath the cliff, 

Where the terror-stricken warrior first beheld it 
from his skiff. 

'Twas a fearsome thing to look on, with its 

great ferocious head, 
And its mighty, vise -like talons, sharp as spears 

and bloody red, 
While the vampire wings, extended, showed an 

alligator tail, 
And the body safe protected with a rugged coat 

of mail. 

All day, perched upon the hill -top, it would gaze 

upon the wave, 
But retreated with the darkness to the cover of 

the cave; 
And, infallible as Nature, just at break and close 

of day, 
Did it spread its mighty pinions and go forth in 

search of prey. 



Woe to any living creature that its eagle eye 
might scan: 

Oft it captured deer or bison, but its favorite 
food was man. 

It would seize its helpless victim and retire with- 
in the cave, 

And, once grasped within those talons, all was 
powerless to save. 

Many a squaw beheld her warrior borne toward 

that fatal height, 
Many a huntsman, home returning, found his 

wigwam bare at night: 
Sore dismayed, the tribes retreated far across the 

Western plain, 
But the bird still followed after, and the flight 

was all in vain, 

Till the cavern floor was covered o'er with heaps 

of human bones, 
And the forest depths re-echoed a despairing 

nation's groans; 
When at last the aged chieftain, who had prayed 

and fasted much 
That his people might be rescued from that 

awful monster's clutch, 



In his dreams beheld a vision, and was counseled 

by a voice; 
And the plan which it unfolded made his stout 

old heart rejoice, 
Though the Manitou informed him that to save 

his people's life 
He must be the proffered victim, and might 

perish in the strife. 

He would soon be old and useless; gladly would 

he die to gain 
Life and freedom for his people, and to see that 

monster slain. 
Then he chose his twelve best warriors, and they 

journeyed in the night, 
Armed with bows and poisoned arrows, to the 

demon -haunted height. 

On a rock above the cavern the old Indian took 

his stand, 
Parting from his grim companions with a pressure 

of the hand, 
Then in an adjacent crevice he commanded them 

to hide, 
Thence to shoot upon his signal, aiming at the 

under side. 



Thus he waited for the sunrise, and meanwhile 
in rapture viewed 

Nature's beauties spread before him in that awful 
solitude: 

Here his native hills and valleys, sloping back- 
ward from the shore 

To the plain where stood his wigwam in the 
happy days of yore; 

There the fens of the Missouri, in their waves of 

living green, 
And the Mississippi rolling in majestic course 

between : 
Then anon in retrospection, thrilled with honest 

pride, he thought 
Of the trophies he had taken, and the battles he 

had fought. 

Many moons had come and vanished since, on 

yonder shining strand, 
He received the lineal hatchet from his dying 

father's hand, 
With injunctions to be watchful, well to guard 

his people's life, 
And protect their wives and children from the 

stranger's scalping knife. 



And no foe had e'er been able to infringe his 

regal sway, 
Till the Piasa's invasion had compelled him to 

give way. 
Then he thought of spouse and offspring, and the 

hero's soul was moved, 
As he asked a final blessing for the dear ones 

that he loved. 

Even then the sun was risen in a flood of golden 

light, 
Gilding all the plain below him with a thousand 

colors bright; 
Now the time had come for action, and with 

calm, untroubled eye, 
He embraced the fate before him, sure his time 

had come to die. 

One brief moment, then the chieftain bowed his 

head in silent prayer, 
When the death -hymn from his lips was borne 

upon the morning air; 
And the twelve secreted archers as they listened 

in dismay, 
Saw the grewsome bird rise upward, and swoop 

down upon its prey. 



But they aimed with trained precision, and a 
dozen twanging strings 

Hurled as many deadly arrows deep beneath the 

monster's wings. 
With a scream of rage and terror, such as never 

since was heard, 
Backward, o'er the towering hill -top, dying, fell 

the mighty bird. 

Then anon the tribe assembled at a great thanks- 
giving feast, 

Where they praised the Blessed Spirit for their 
king, so safe released; 

For, though badly bruised and mangled by the 
demon's final throes, 

The old chief survived; — and after conquered 
many daring foes; 

And a likeness of the monster on the prec'pice 

was engraved, 
That they ever might remember from what fate 

they had been saved. 
Ever after, when the warrior drifted by it in his 

skiff, 
He discharged a poisoned arrow at the picture on 

the cliff. 



Though the tracing now has vanished with the 
silent lapse of time, 

And the rock whereon 'twas drawn has been 
transmuted into lime, — 

Though another race is monarch o'er the Missis- 
sippi's tide, 

And a city's temples tower where the Indian 
fought and died, 

Yet do parents oft rehearse, while children list 
with bated breath, 

How the brave Ouatoga lured the dreaded 
"Piasa" to death. 



SONG OF THE SETTING SUN. 

YX/HILE the sunset glories linger 

On the cloud-hills of the West, 
The anthelia's tell-tale finger 

Pointing out each rugged crest, 
Let us rest here by the river, 

Where the twilight shadows creep, — 
As of old, with bow and quiver, 

Stole the warrior up the steep. 

Now the day's reflected glories 

Their soft colorings impart: 
As the wit of well -told stories 

Leaves their impress on the heart. 
Truly 'tis a charmed surrounding, 

And the very stones we cast, 
On the rugged bluffs rebounding, 

Echo the forgotten past, — 



Till fond fancy, backward fleeting, 

Paints a picture of the time 
When each sun these regions greeting 

Marked the Indian in his prime: 
When, his title undisputed, 

He was lord of all he saw, 
And his valor, widely bruited, 

Held all rival tribes in awe: 

When his pointed arrow speeding 

Faster than the winds are fleet, 
Brought the luckless quarry bleeding 

Down within its dark retreat: 
While the women, ne'er contending, 

Worked until each task was done, 
And the urchins, war pretending, 

Aimed their missiles at the sun. 

'Tis a vivid presentation, 

Beautiful to look upon, 
But it passes, like the nation, 

Into dreamland, and is gone; — 
Even as the scenes it cherished, 

Even as the day was fair, 
So the memory has perished, 

And the damp of dreath is there. 



Now the fields of maize are growing 

Where the Indian lies at rest, 
And the farmer's furrows, flowing, 

Shift the soil above his breast. 
Nor shall warrior e'er reviewing 

Here behold the grave's disgrace, 
For the stern plowshare of Ruin 

Hath run havoc through the race. 

Since they crossed yon peaceful water 

Toward the far Pacific shore, 
They have shared the bison's slaughter, 

And pursue the herds no more: 
Save the few, who, still remaining, 

By a thankless land ignored, 
Their captivity disdaining, 

Choose to perish by the sword. 

So this tragedy of nations, 

Like the passing of a day, 
Saddest of the world's narrations, 

Marks an epoch passed away; 
And the pen that writes the story 

Will have much of good to tell 
In the book, of Indian glory, 

Ere the last great chieftain fell. 



True, they fought like demons, fired 

With a zeal that stands alone, 
Yet their fury was inspired, 

For they did but 'fend their own. 
Sparing all equivocation, 

We usurped the red-man's crown 
When he spurned civilization, 

By whose sceptre he went down. 

Aye, the sun of life is setting 

O'er the Indian's vale of rest, 
And the mad world, soon forgetting, 

Surges onward toward the West: 
While he waits, with many another, 

When the final trumpet sounds, 
To receive his paleface brother 

On the Happy Hunting Grounds. 



THE LEGEND OF LOVER'S LEAP.* 

CLOW the summer day lies dying, in the 

^ shadowy arms of night, 

And the wind, its requiem sighing, sweeps around 

the headlands white. 
Hear it; like a soul in anguish, that, distracted, 

comes to weep, 
Fretting its fantastic pinions on the rocks of 

Lover's Leap: 
Here, while pale the moonbeams glisten, let us 

sit and muse awhile, 
And the prospect will repay us for the moments 

we beguile. 

Soft the landscape is, and dreamy, and the stars 

shine overhead: 
Far below the rippling waters glide along their 

sandy bed; 
Over stream and hill and valley Nature holds her 

court supreme, 
And I catch the tender cadence of a golden, 

olden dream. 



*Note II.— Appendix. 1 3 



Sitting here beneath the shelter of the over- 
hanging rock, 

Comes a Presence stealing o'er me, and it seems 
inclined to talk — 

To unfold the hidden legend of this point of 
Indian fame, 

All the strange, unwritten story how it came to 
bear its name. 

Long ago, so runs the record, ere the paleface 

saw the land, 
And the red man in his glory trod the river's 

shining sand, 
Came a maiden here to worship every evening, 

when the sun 
Dipped behind the Western woodland, and the 

daily chase was done — 
Came to thank the Blessed Spirit for the many 

mercies sent, 
And to ask for all her people grace and plenty, 

and content. 

Fair she was, this dusky damsel, daughter of the 

tribal chief, 
And she bore a charmed existence in the popular 

belief: 



14 



Many of the brave young warriors had contended 

for her hand, 
And though all had failed to win her, all were 

slaves to her command. 



But it chanced one fatal evening, gazing hence 

across the stream, 
She beheld a youthful boatman in the early 

twilight gleam, 
And she hailed the comely stranger, till he 

turned in at the shore: 
He was of another people, whom she ne'er had 

known before. 
Each found pleasure in the other, and the chance 

acquaintance grew 
Till they vowed to bide together, and exchanged 

love's pledges true. 
But, alas! one eve they lingered, gazing on the 

peaceful tide, 
As the youth told his devotion, kneeling fondly 

by her side, 
When their tryst was rudely broken, through a 

jealous rival's eyes 
Who beheld an interloper winning thus his 

cherished prize, 



15 



And at once did spread the story that a hated 

enemy 
Was enticing their fair princess from her native 

tribe to flee. 



Then the chieftain, flushed with anger, siezed 

his trusty bow and dart, 
And forbade his warriors weapons — he would 

pierce the villain's heart: 
Stealthily he stole upon them, all unconscious of 

their doom, 
Till his shout of warning echoed like a death - 

knell through the gloom; 
Instantly the maiden, pleading, sprang to shield 

her lover's form; 
Woe! the deadly arrow speeding, sought her life- 
blood, fresh and warm: 
Then the grim old warrior staggered, — he, a 

master in his art, 
Who had never missed a target, shot his 

daughter through the heart; 
And the youth, when comprehending, caught the 

fair form in his arms 
While the angry horde, advancing, pressed him 

close with wild alarms; 



16 



When he sprang upon yon boulder, stood a 

moment calmly there, 
Cast at them a cold defiance — then leaped out 

upon the air. 

Afterwards they found them, mangled, lying on 

the rocks below, 
And the hills re-echoed, sadly, the remorseful 

cries of woe. 
Tenderly the twain were buried, on the summit, 

side by side, 
While the Indian priest, foreknowing, at the 

service prophesied 
That the place should e'er be sacred to the 

spirit it had served, 
As the home of many people who these favors 

well deserved — 
That the Manitou's best blessings, ever coming 

from above, 
Here would hold his chosen children in the 

happy bonds of love. 

Little dreamed the savage savant how his words 

would be fulfilled, 
That another, conquering nation on this sacred 

spot would build, 



17 



When his own had crossed the river, driven, 

never to return, 
To the distant, arid regions where the sunset 

glories burn: — 
Little recked he of the changes, coming down the 

vales of Time, 
That should blight his native woodlands in the 

grandeur of their prime, 
When a wilderness of wigwams, mountain high 

beside his own, 
Should obliterate his footprints from the land 

which he had known. 
But he spoke with truth inspired: Though the 

Indian's sun hath set, 
And his memory, most forgotten, only lingers 

with us yet 
In a score of doubtful legends, such as that 

rehearsed above, 
Illustrative of his nature, passionate with hate 

and love: — 
Other hearts here oft have spoken loves as true 

as theirs of old, 
And exchanged some tender token as the fateful 

tale was told : 



18 



And we hold the place in rev'rence, as each 

passing season brings 
Joys that bide in every household, like a dove 

with folded wings, 
While the voice of new endeavor, ever just before 

us, leads 
On to braver, worthier efforts, loftier aims and 

better deeds. 
Yes, methinks I have been dreaming, and we, 

too, must go to rest, 
For the morrow brings new duties and another, 

nobler quest: 
Peace enwraps the slumbering city, but the winds 

their vigils keep 
Crooning their prophetic murmurs round the point 

of Lover's Leap. 



19 



OUATOGA.* 

DRAVE Chieftain of that honored tribe 
-^ Of Red Men, who presided o'er 
These fertile regions of the West, 

By mighty Mississippi's shore: 
We owe thee much of gratitude 

Who gavest the name of Mini 
A deathless honor, facing death 

As one who does not fear to die 
When duty calls. 'Twas thine to make 

The noblest conquest life may know, 
Of sacrifice for others sake, 

When evil shadows hover low. 
A savage king of savage land, 

'Twas by creation's highest law 
That thou wast nerved to raise thy hand 

Against the monster, Piasa. 
Thou and thy warriors little kenned 

That, in the course of years to be, 
Another nation would commend 

The deed that set thy people free. 
Thine was the impulse; ours the meed 

Of profit, in the fruit it gave, 
Through that fair flower of val'rous deed 

That blossoms o'er thy nameless grave. 



*Note III. — Appendix. 



THE WARRIOR'S LAMENT. 

CROWNING stood the grizzled chieftain on the 

desecrated mound, 
Gazing like a wounded eagle on the fertile fields 

around ; 
Stern and sad, his brows were furrowed with the 

seams of many woes, 
And his waving locks were whitened by the fall 

of countless snows. 
Silently he gazed about him, over all the varied 

scene — 
Saw the waving fields and orchards and the 

roads that wound between: 
Marked the sites of happy homesteads, studding 

all the rolling plain, 
And across his clouded visage came a look of 

stifled pain. 



%i O, Great Spirit of my fathers," thus at last 

his thought found breath, 
"Who for many years have slumbered in this 

mound the sleep of death, 
Why, when you laid down the hatchet on the 

battlefield of life, 
Did you leave your luckless children to keep up 

the bitter strife? 
Ah, my mother, you who bore me, when those 

bones were laid to rest, 
Why was I not buried with you, locked in 

slumber on your breast? 
Better to have died in childhood, better have 

remained unborn, 
Then have lived to see my people made to bear 

the white man's scorn! 
O, great Father, mighty river, when we crossed 

yon silver tide 
Little thought we of the sorrows which that fatal 

step implied! 
Banished from our native forests, driven from our 

fathers' graves, 
We were promised peace and plenty 'yond the 

Mississippi's waves; 



Thus we went away, in sadness, left our 

heritage behind, 
On the far-off Western prairies other hunting 

grounds to find. 
Did the pale -face keep his promise? No, for 

scarcely had we gone 
When his armies, coming after, forced my people 

to move on! 
Onward still the white man's powder drives us 

toward the setting sun, 
And will never cease to urge us till the fatal race 

is run: 
Westward yet across the mountains is the Indian 

forced to flee 
And ere long his race must perish, 'whelmed 

beneath the rolling sea. 
Blame us not, Eternal Spirit, that we should 

resist so long — 
That we rise anon in protest to resent this 

mighty wrong. 

"Once again the gray-haired warrior stands 

beside the tribal grave, 
'Mid the maze of desolation, by his native river's 

wave: 



23 



Could an Indian's curses blight them, in their 

arrogance and pride, 
I would lay these fields in ruin, scatter all their 

homesteads wide ! 
Not the gauntlet of the death -dance and the torture 

at the stake, 
Not the Indian's darkest vengeance could enough 

atonement make 
For the wrongs which he has suffered at the 

spoiler's ruthless hand, 
Who now rules in proud dominion in my people's 

native land. 
But 'tis vain, my race is fallen, and can never 

rise again 
Till the Manitou shall call us to the happy 

regions. Then, 
When the Indian and the pale -face stand before 

him in the throng, 
He will hold his mighty council and decide which 

one was wrong. 
Farewell, Spirit of my Fathers, for the time is 

growing late, 
I must go to join my people, and to share their 

final fate." 



24 



Yet he stood awhile in silence, as if fettered by 

a spell, 
Stooping then to earth he kissed it: thus he took 

his last farewell. 
Then he wrapped his cloak about him and in 

silence strode away, — 
Off, toward the sunset regions, passing with the 

dying day. 



25 



THE CROSSING OF THE SIOUX.* 

DORTAGE des Sioux, historic place, 

Nestled beside the peaceful shore, 
An unpretentious village now, 

But rich in legendary lore, — 
Where plods the busy throng to-day, 

And from yon lofty steeple side 
The chimes that call to evening prayer 

Float o'er the restful river's tide — 
Where sings the farmer as he guides 

His plowshare through the mellow soil, 
And bounteous harvests every year 

Reward him well for honest toil. 

Time was when all was wild and drear 
Within the dark, primeval wood, 

Save here and there, where on the ridge 
A straggling group of wigwams stood. 



*Note IV. — Appendix. 2 6 



Here reigned the red man all supreme, 

Plied undisturbed the huntsman's art, 
Nor owned a foe more brave than he 

Who dared to cross his deadly dart. 
The battle cry, the fleeting chase, 

Roused all his passions, all his joy; 
And many a haughty challenge met 

The neighboring tribes of Illinois. 

And once, so runs the legend old, 

There came a panic to the land : 
A foe so terrible to meet, 

The bravest did not dare withstand. 
Small tribal feuds were soon forgot 

In the dread fate which threatened all, 
The strongest turned his back and fled 

Before the awful monster's call. 
Then came, howe'er, a day of joy 

When every warrior, child and squaw r , 
In savage exultation danced 

About the slaughtered Piasa. 

Where towers yon holy temple now, 

Marquette — the earliest white man — trod, 

And standing 'midst the pagan throng 

First taught them of the Christian's God. 



27 



'Twas later yet by many moons 

When that historic struggle came 
Which brought about the strategy 

Wherefrom the village has its name. 
Two nations ruled these lowland plains, 

The wily Sioux and fiery Crow 
And ne'er two feudal warriors met 

But flint was sped from bended bow. 

Thus once a scouting band of Sioux 

Ventured too far on foreign soil, 
Nor ever thought of danger till 

Encircled by the foeman's toil. 
But with a quick, decisive move 

The Sioux broke through the attacking rank, 
Seizing a score of staunch canoes 

Moored close beside the sandy bank; 
Then down the dark Missouri's flood 

A race of life and death began, 
Two scores of fugitives pursued 

By hosts — a score to every man. 

Wild is the flight; with deafening yells 

The Crows come surging down the stream; 

Like lances glinting in the sun 

Their paddles o'er the waters gleam: 

28 



And six good throws below, the Sioux 

With features set in sullen pride, 
Bl-\k\ every muscle to the strokes, 

As through the rushing waves they glide. 
With courage fostered of despair 

They forge ahead and surely gain; 
But still the murderous host comes on 

While flint-capped arrows fall like rain. 

For hours the maddening contest lasts, 

The strongest failing, faint and sore, 
When suddenly, around a bend, 

They vanish and are seen no more. 
Just where, almost, the rivers meet, 

When, veering sharply in its flow, 
The mad Missouri turns to join 

The Mississippi miles below, 
With practiced eye the Sioux perceived 

A chance to 'scape the victim's doom: 
Landed, and carrying their canoes, 

Quick vanished in the forest gloom. 

Brief was the march, and soon they found 
Them by their native river's waves, 

Re-launched, and paddled safely back 

To join their squaws and fellow braves. 



29 



The Crows, not 'ware that aught was wrong, 
Kept madly on their fruitless course, 

And were in turn pursued, engaged, 
And routed by superior force. 



Thus did the village find its name; 

The race that since hath settled here, 
Descendants of De Soto's men — 

Still hold the legend fondly dear. 
Ask any burgher you may meet; 

He will avow the story true, 
And point that narrow neck of land 

That marks the crossing of the Sioux. 



30 



ILLIOLA'S PENANCE.* 

\X/ALKING down the peaceful valley, 'neath 

the silvery summer moon, 

To the spring whose crystal waters gurgle forth, 
a precious boon, 

From the hills whose rock-ribbed contour cir- 
cumscribes the starry sky, 

to me a dreamful story, whence I know 
not, neither why, — 

Comes as from the sparkling fountain, through 
the music of its flow, 

In an idyl of devotion from the days of long ago. 

Dwelt there once an Indian Princess yonder by 

the river side, 
Graced with Nature's richest favors, and a boon 

of tender pride 
In the wigwam of her people, who esteemed her 

half divine, 
As the Manitou had sent her to achieve some 

great design. 



*Note V.— Appendix. 31 



Frail of form, yet fair and graceful as the fern 

leaves at her feet; 
True and tender and devoted, and of bearing 

rarely sweet; 
Guileless as the dappled deerling, brought her 

when the hunt was done: 
Winsome as the woodland roses smiling at the 

morning sun: — 
Was the Princess Illiola, daughter of the reigning 

chief, 
On the eve of her great sorrow, in the gloomy 

vale of grief. 

Never womanhood so perfect lived of manhood 
unadmired, 

And the hope to gain her favor many daring 
deeds inspired 

In the warriors of her people, who were never 
loth to go 

To the chase, or e'en to battle, with an un- 
relenting foe. 

Of the many, two were favored by her fond 
approving eye; 

Both were counted brave and manly, and no arm 
with theirs could vie; 



32 



Each adored the peerless maiden, and their 

trophies, one by one, 
Graced the entrance to her wigwam when the 

daily hunt was done: 
Brothers were they in relation, twin of birth and 

one of mind, 
But she vowed the love to neither that to either 

was inclined. 

Came a day of autumn glory, when the Princess 

walked alone, 
Aimlessly about the valley, wrapped in musings 

all her own; 
Thinking of the ardent lovers — maybe searching 

in her heart 
Whom to give the wifely favor, whom to send 

the cruel dart, 
For she felt in sense of duty that the time to act 

was near, 
And — the sound of angry voices broke upon her 

startled ear: 
'Twas the brothers hot in parley; and she stole 

with noiseless tread 
Till she heard, in trembling terror, all the bitter 

things they said, 



33 



Standing there in grim defiance. It was Illiola's 

name 
That had drowned all thought of kinship in a 

flood of savage flame. 
They had slain an antlered monarch; each had 

hunted unaware 
Of the other's like endeavor, each had aimed his 

missile fair, 
And each claimed the noble quarry, vowed the 

conquest all his own 
For a gift to Illiola. Woe! Upon that bed of 

stone 
Fell two forms athwart the carcass, and an arrow 

in each breast 
Told the 'wildered, weeping maiden what her 

heart had never guessed. 

When they found her on the morrow, reason's 

light had left her eyes, 
And the soul of Illiola moaned its requiem to the 

skies. 
All the sages of the nation came to minister, in 

vain, 
To the Chieftain's beauteous daughter; none 

could ease the fatal pain; 



34 



Like a broken tlower she faded, pining by the 

valley-side 
Where the tragedy transpired, and, with the new 

moon, she died. 

But that night there came a Presence, and her 

people heard a voice, 
Softer than the sound of waters, and it counseled 

thus: "Rejoice! 
Do not weep for llliola, for the Manitou hath said 
That her spirit, here abiding, shall redeem the 

life-blood shed, 
In a consecrated fountain; washing out the 

crimson stain 
Of the lover's last encounter, to the nation's 

lasting gain. 
Here shall sorrows be requited, while the ill find 

health anew, 
And all jealous passions mingle in a better, 

broader view, 
When the people meet to counsel, in the dawn 

of brighter day, 
As yon stains by these bright waters are suffused 

and washed away." 



35 



Looking, they beheld the wonder of the boulder 

rent apart, 
And from out the fissured crevice saw the 

sparkling water start; 
Stooped the Chief, and quaffing deeply, spoke: 

"The Manitou be praised; 
Be this valley consecrated to His service," and 

he raised 
In his hands a shining pebble, and concluded, 

calm and clear: 
"So may Illiola's penance brighten all who tarry 

here." 

* * * 

Hath it seemed a Pagan story? Here we are 

beside the spring; 
Drink we to the spirit maiden, while the service 

vespers ring, 
And the words of counsel falling from the 

platform seneschal, 
Seem to echo Illiola's benediction over all. 



36 



ON A PICTURE OF SITTING BULL. 

r^ RIM warrior, as we gaze upon 

^ The painted likeness of thy face, 

How sadly we recall with thee 

The story of thy ill-starred race. 
Resistless will and manly power 

Are on those features interlined, 
And stamped upon that lofty brow 

The impress of a haughty mind. 

The last and greatest of the line 

Of fighting chiefs, — majestic, brave; 

We honor thee despite thy deeds; 
And oft beside that lonely grave 

The patriot in awe will pause, 

Remembering thee and thy lost cause. 



37 



RICHARDVILLE.* 

DESIDE St. Mary's silver stream, 

Whose laughing waters, all agleam, 
Flow past the city of Fort Wayne, 
Through Indiana's fertile plain, 
There stands within a churchyard gray — 
Long since surrendered to decay — 
A weather-beaten shaft of stone, 
With moss and lichens overgrown, 
Upon whose surface may be traced 
These words, by time almost effaced: 

"Here rest the bones of Richardville, 
Great chief of the Miami tribe. 
An Indian statesman of great skill, 
Who never gave nor took a bribe." 

The story of the warrior's name, 
Although, perchance, unknown to fame, 
Is still remembered and revered 
Upon the plains where he was reared, 



*Note VI. — Appendix. 38 



And honored as among the few 

Red men who upright were, and true. 

Though now his race has passed away, 

And scarcely in this latter day 

Do we take trouble to recall 

The hated people from whose fall 

We date our own prosperity, 

Yet in this chieftain's life we see 

Enough of nobleness to prove 

That one, at least, could feel and love. 

Full ten-score years ago, and more, 

When on St. Mary's wooded shore 

The swarthy Indian proudly stood, 

Unchallenged monarch of the wood; 

When first the white man dared to brave 

The wilds beyond Ohio's wave, 

And many a hero lost his life 

Upon the stake or by the knife, 

One day the tribe, in council grave, 

Met by the peaceful river's wave. 

Some, boasting, showed their battle scars, 

While others plotted future wars; 

From wigwams swaying in the breeze 

Blue smoke curled upward through the trees, 



39 



Within, the dusky squaws were bent, 

Each on some toilsome task intent, 

And on the stream to instinct true 

The urchin plied his fleet canoe, 

Orjaunched into a tree the dart 

That should have pierced a foeman's heart; 

Thus grouped the savage host, serene, 

Encamped upon the peaceful scene. 

But this was not the business yet 

For which the braves that day were met; 

'Twas matter of a darker dye 

That spoke in every warrior's eye. 

Near by, though from the throng away, 
There stood a squaw with locks of gray, 
And standing by her side a youth 
Whose eye betrayed a heart of truth, 
A soul with wild ambition fired, 
A mind of lofty thoughts inspired, 
His every look and act confessed 
A nobler lineage than the rest, 
Gathered within the camp that day 
To while the loitering hours away. 
The woman was the widowed dame 
Of him, now gone, whose peerless name 



4 o 



Honored by all the tribe had stood 
Supreme, as patriarch of the wood. 
Her fondest hope and single prayer 

Was that she might survive the hour 
To see the lad beside her there 

Invested with his father's power. 

But valor was the only rod 
By which these warriors would be ruled, 
In danger's front had they been schooled, 

And they would brook no other god. 
Thus, though they owned the stripling's blood, 
And mourned his mother's widowhood, 
Those heroes of a hundred wars — 
Deep seamed by honored battle scars — 
Would never bow beneath his will 
Until, by some brave act of skill, 
Or master deed he should evince 
The prowess of an Indian prince. 
Hence was the tribe together come 
To choose, from out their number, one 
To lead their wars and councils sage 
Till their young chief should come of age. 



But hark! Above the lazy breeze 
That whispered soft among the trees 
Was heard the sound of many feet, 
As through the forest's still retreat 
A party came with hurried tramp, 
Dragging a prisoner into camp. 
With hands and feet securely bound, 
The captive sank upon the ground. 
A son of that despised race! 
Reflected on that manly face 
The resignation of despair: 
For well he knew no friends were there 
To save him from that awful fate — 
The savage zeal to satiate. 

Past was the time of lethargy; 

All danced about in ghoulish glee, 

Anticipating soon to see 

Their victim writhing at the stake, 

Which awful rite alone could slake 

The vengeance of the Indian's heart. 

Briefly the braves communed apart, 

Not long, for in each mind foredoomed, 

The verdict was: "To be consumed 

By torture at the burning stake." 

So spake they all; none there to take 



42 



The pale-face' part. The dread decree, 

Announced, was hailed with wildest glee. 

Some hastened to prepare the tree, 

While others for the fagots went 

In frenzied zeal; each soul was bent 

On hastening the fearful rite. 

The captive, lying pale and white, 

Heroically endured the taunts, 

The cruel blows and savage vaunts, 

Cast upon him from every side. 

At last he stood, securely tied; 

All was prepared; the lighted brand 

Blazed in the iron warrior's hand. 



'Now go, my son, and do thy part I" 
Cried she who all the while apart 
Beside the youth in silence stood: 
'Now go and prove thy sire's blood 
Runs not for nothing in thy veins. 
Quick! or too late will be thy pains !" 
Then suddenly the flames leaped out, 
As round the pile with deafening shout, 
The awful dance of death began, 
When, lo! across the circle ran, 
Resistless as a thunder storm, 
With lightning speed, a slender form, 



43 



Scattered like reeds the crackling brands, 
Released the prisoner's feet and hands, 
And, placing in his grasp the knife, 
Bade him be gone and fly for life. 
Then, turning to the astonished band, 
He shouted, with uplifted hand: 

'If you must kill, then murder me, 
But let this hapless man go free! 
My sire's blood is in these veins, 
And well ye know his soul disdained 
Thus cowardly to take the life 
Of one with whom he had no strife.' ' 

Half stupefied, the warriors gazed 
Upon the youth, and saw, amazed, 
Him who had dared this brave relief, 
The son of their departed chief. 
The flash of anger in their eyes 
Gave place to looks of deep surprise: 
Then admiration for his deed 
Secured for him the highest meed 
Which a brave warrior could receive. 
Thus what began an awful rite, 
Ended a feast of proud delight; 
Each warrior in that swarthy band 



44 



Advanced to kiss the stripling's hand, 
And owned him ruler of the land. 

Long lived the youth, a ruler brave, 

Beside St. Mary's peaceful wave. 

He drew his bow in many a fight, 

But ever on the side of right, 

And through his life, until the end, 

He still remained the white man's friend. 

In battle strong, in council skilled, 

He won the name of Richardville, 

And over Indiana's plains, 

Where erst this noble savage reigned, 

His name is known and honored still. 

In after years, when wars had ceased, 
While signing documents of peace, 
He met the man whose life was saved 
When first his people's wrath he braved. 
Each clasped the other as a friend, 
And so remained until the end. 
The debt of life was well repaid, 
And when the chieftain's bones were laid 
To rest beside their native stream, 
The other, showing his esteem, 



45 



Raised o'er his grave this shaft of stone, 
And carved the lines you see thereon: 

'Pilgrim, when idly passing here, 

Tread lightly o'er this sacred mound, 

And grudge it not one manly tear, 

For know, you tread on sainted ground/ ' 



4 6 



A DUEL ON THE PLAINS. 

MUNECHI and Swapi were warriors as brave 
1 As ever encountered an enemy's glave, 
And oft through the Nation, when ranges were 

wide, 
They chased the fleet quarry, or fought side by 

side; 
Each man was endowed with the gift of his 

race, — 
Great physical powers and sinewy grace, — 
Both highly esteemed in the great tribal creed, 
That dare-devil courage is valor, indeed, 
And each held the other in highest regard, 
As worthy an Indian's most cherished reward. 

But one sorry day when their passions were fired 
They changed to the likeness of demons inspired. 
'Tvvas at the wild race -meet, where each tribal 

steed 
Was run o'er the courses for mettle and speed, 
There, first in the saddle and last in the field, 
These twain were victorious, but neither would 

yield 



47 



The other his laurels, till, breaking at last, 

The steeds interfered, — and the challenge was 

cast. 
Impulsively savage, their passions once crossed, 
The friendship of years in an instant was lost, 
And, glaring defiance, each in the same breath 
Demanded the right of a fight to the death. 

Friends, half comprehending, looked on in dismay, 
But in the dread finale had little to say, 
For deep in the heart of the Indian is set 
The maxim to never forgive or forget, 
And having inflicted the greatest offense 
Their customs afforded, through hatred intense, 
Each bystander knew that to protest were vain, 
Since only their life-blood could wipe out the 

stain. 
Hence sadly the old chieftain gave his consent, 
And straight the two warriors, on murder intent, 
Selected their seconds, the surest of shot, 
And armed them as guards of the dueling spot; 
When, clasping a glittering knife in each hand, 
They entered the circle and took their last stand. 

In all the vast concourse no murmur was heard, 
The contestants, glaring, exchanged not a word, 



4 8 



Forgetting the onlookers standing inert, 
bach nerve at full tension, each fibre alert. 
They stood as the panther preparing to spring, 
Then cautiously crossed and recrossed in the 

ring. 
Each felt that his uttermost skill would be tried, 
And knew what a single false movement implied. 
Look! quick as the lightning each turns on his 

heel, 
And naught save the flashing and clashing of 

steel 
Is marked for a moment, then, breaking, they 

part, 
With neither a scratch, — what a marvel of art! 
But quick as a flash they return to the fray, 
And now there is blood, and Nunechi gives way; 
No! see, 'tis a feint; aye! and Swapi goes down, 
But not for Nunechi the conqueror's crown; 
For e'en as he bends the last blow to impart, 
He falls and expires with a knife in his heart. 
Now hail they the champion, whose conquering 

yell 
Defies the poor clay of the warrior who fell ; 
But see how he falters, how lowers his head! 
He falls, and both victor and vanquished are 

dead. 



49 



PAWNADAWA'S VENGEANCE.* 

(^N the shore of Lake Superior, one eventful 

^-^ afternoon, — 

'Twas a quiet summer's evening in the pleasant 
month of June — 

Stood a scornful Indian beauty, fondly dreaming, 
half awake, 

Idly gazing at the shadows on the bosom of the 
lake, — 

Stood the winsome Pawnadawa, lost in medita- 
tion sweet, 

Thinking of the pale -face lover whom she waited 
there to meet. 

Nature had bestowed upon her symmetry of form 

and face, 
Graces that were seldom granted to the daughters 

of her race; 



*Note VII. — Appendix. cj 



Yes, she was indeed a beauty, as she stood 

serenely there, 
Playfully the evening breezes tossed about her 

raven hair, 
While, commingled with her tresses was a veri- 

colored wreath, 
And her pouting lips, half parted, showed two 

rows of pearly teeth. 

Yet her bearing condescending showed a pride 

that made her vain, 
And she looked upon her sisters of the camp with 

cold disdain; 
Many times had she been courted by the gallants 

of her tribe, 
Many braves from other nations came to woo 

with costly bribe, 
But no v/ords or wiles could win her, and she 

sent each one away 
To be mocked by luckless rivals, who had seen 

their humble day. 

For the shaft had not been feathered that should 

pierce her wanton heart, 
Till the stranger from the city came to woo with 

practiced art, 

51 



As a special trusted agent for the traders in the 

East, 
Giving for their furs munitions and provisions 

for the feast. 
Dwelt he as a prince among them, far removed 

from home and friends, 
And the kindred social joys whereon so much of 

life depends. 

Sought he oft her father's wigwam, coming as an 
honored guest, 

Where he saw the little maiden, ever bright and 
self-possessed, 

Till he came almost to love the sportive, way- 
ward forest child; 

Many happy, fleeting hours in her presence he 
beguiled, 

And resolved at last to woo her to submission, if 
he could; 

She would make a sweet companion for him in 
this lonely wood. 

When the time should come for leaving, and his 

mission here was o'er, 
He could leave her with her people — oft had this 

been done before, 



52 



So he flattered and caressed her, pressed his suit 

with presents gay, 
Told her fancy -colored stories of his people, far. 

away, — 
Told the tale of Pocahontas, and the homage she 

received 
From the lofty lords and ladies in the land beyond 

the seas: 

Told her that the pale-face maidens, spite of. all 
their wordly goods, 

Could they see her, all would envy his dear 
princess of the woods. 

Thus with cajoleries and falsehoods he aroused 
her love and pride 

Till he knew that he had won her, — that she fain 
would be his bride. 

Thus we find her by the lakeside on this sum- 
mer's evening fair, 

Waiting for the fair deceiver who had vowed to 
to meet her there. 

Hist! she must have heard him coming, for a 

smile is on her lips, 
And as lightly as a feather to her bark near by 

she skips, 



53 



When, with burst of merry laughter, quick she 
glides out from the shore, 

Leaves him standing disconcerted, though reluc- 
tant to implore. 

"Ha, my Ernest is a sluggard; you have kept 
me waiting long, 

And I've half a mind to leave you here, to suffer 
for my wrong.' ' 

"O, my Bright Eyes, do not leave me, come; 

see here what I have got." 
And her eyes beheld the present; further words 

he needed not. 
She returned, received the trinket, and repaid 

him with a kiss, 
So the twain embarked together in an ecstacy of 

bliss; 
When she headed for an island, gaily laughing, 

full of glee, 
And went skipping o'er the water like a gull 

upon the sea. 

There the fatal farce was acted; there, before 

the twilight came, 
He had asked the maid to wed him, she had 

vowed to bear his name. 



54 



Ah! It on that fateful evening then he thought 

he held his prize, 
He had seen the fiends of passion hid beneath 

those laughing eyes! 
Could he then have known her truly, quickly 

had he changed his mind, 
But the soul of man is willful, and a lover 

always blind. 

He had with him an assistant who was better 

versed than he 
In the book of Indian nature, and it pained his 

heart to see, 
This young, self-deluded lover rushing onward to 

his fate, 
Yet he had not dared to caution, till, alas! it 

was too late. 
But that night he was returning from a hunt 

along the strand, 
And beheld the tender parting of the twain upon 

the sand ; 

Heard the fulsome words they uttered, saw their 

kisses fondly blend, 
And resolved to wait no longer, but at once to 

warn his friend. 



55 



Hence that evening, after supper, as he laid 
aside his pan, 

He sat down beside his messmate, cleared his 
throat and thus began: 

"I'm afraid you are in danger from an unsus- 
pected foe, 

Would you mind if I should tell you? ,, ' 'Heavens, 
no, what is it, Joe?" 

"Do you mean to wed that maiden ?" "Does it 

matter if 1 do?" 
"Not to me," Joe answered, dryly, "but, my 

boy, it does to you; 
Take my warning, if you wed her, you will rue 

it ere you part, 
Better try to tame a serpent than that little 

witch's heart. ,, 
"Gracious! man, what makes you think so?" 

asked Lefare with wounded pride; 
"What would make me think of otters if I came 

across their slide? 

"I have roamed these woods too often with the 

rifle and the axe, 
And have seen too many varmints not to know 

them by their tracks; 



56 



I have spent my life among them — and my hair 
is turning gray — 

Yet I never met a creature half as treacherous as 

they." 
\ . Joe, you are much mistaken, she is deep 

in love with me." 
"Well, perhaps she is at present, but this will 

not always be. 

"Do you mean to take her with you when this 

trading business ends?" 
"Take a copper-colored wife home, to be 

laughed at by my friends? 
Heavens, man, you must be crazy: I shall leave 

her here, of course — 
Here, among these savage people there's no ban 

upon divorce." 
"Well, then, wed her if you want to, but 

remember what I say, 
Better watch the vixen's motions, or you'll come 

to grief some day. 

"You had rather quit this business and — great 

gophers! what was that?" 

"Nothing but a startled otter, or a frightened 

water rat." 



57 



Yes, an otter; had he seen her, crawling by the 

water's edge, 
Every fibre of her being quivering with stifled 

rage ! 
She had listened to their council, overheard the 

whole debate, 
And her passion in a moment turned from love to 

burning hate. 

Ah! If e'er the King of Evil sat enthroned on 

human brow, 
He was undisputed master of the Indian beauty 

now. 
On she flew, her headlong passions broken loose 

from all control, 
Raging like a band of furies through the chambers 

of her soul. 
Yet she met him on the morrow with a lover's 

gentle zest, 
And no sign betrayed the tempest that was 

raging in her breast. 

Till he questioned, all unconscious of the maiden's 

fell design: 
"O my Bright Eyes, little darling, tell me when 

you will be mine?" 

58 



"At the foot of yonder boulder, if to-morrow 

morn be fair, 
There will Bright Eyes come to meet thee; go 

and wait thy answer there." 
Gladly he obeyed her summons, in the morning 

fair and clear, 
He sat waiting by the tryst-place for the maiden 

to appear. 

Long he lingered, till the sunshine, rising clear 
above the hills, 

Kissed the dew from off the grasses, dried the 
mists above the rills, 

Yet he did not see her coming; what could make 
her stay so late? 

Surely something had detained her. He deter- 
mined yet to wait. 

Then he heard a sound behind him, turned, and 
with a shudder sprang 

As a rattlesnake that moment, hissing, struck 
with gaping fang, 

Then another and another: from all sides he saw 

them come, 
Wakened by their leader's challenge, and he 

stood with terror dumb, 



59 



When a shout of ringing laughter grated harshly 
on his ear: — 

"O, my Bright Eyes! help me! save me!" cried 
he, almost crazed with fear; 

"Ha! Lefare! — thy tongue is falser than the ser- 
pents at thy feet, 

But I am the only maiden whom its lies will 
ever cheat. 

"On that same accursed evening when I promised 

to be thine, 
I was close beside thy wigwam, overheard thy 

fell design; 
Made a wife and then deserted for another? We 

shall see; 
Here I bade thee seek thy answer, fiery tongues 

will give it thee. M 
"If you have a woman's pity," cried he, almost 

choked for breath, 
"If you have a heart within you, save me from 

this awful death.' ' 

But the venom touched his vitals, and he leaped 

in air and fell ; 
Then she watched them pile upon him like a 
thousand fiends of hell, — 

60 



Saw him tight like one enchanted, with the 

courage of despair, 
While the reptiles coiled about him, mingled with 

his flowing hair; 
And at last when all was ended, and the tortured 

soul was gone, 
Still she stood there, high above them, shouting 

loud to hiss them on. 

Then she sought old Joe, the trapper; with a 

laugh no tongue could mock, 
"Go," she said, "thy master waits thee at the 

base of yonder rock." 
O, the agonies that filled him when he saw that 

awful sight, 
Others might have been deluded, but he judged 

the scene aright. 
He secured the mangled body from the vengeance 

of the snakes, 
And with tender care interred it in a vale beside 

the lake. 

Even then he saw the woman, still unsatisfied, 

he thought, 
Laughing like some fiend incarnate at the havoc 

she had wrought. 

61 



"God forgive me," said the veteran, in an 
agony of strife, 

"It is very wrong I know for man to take a 
human life — 

But," — the ringing of a rifle cut the final sen- 
tence short, 

And the soul of Pawnadawa took its flight with 
the report. 

Quickly, then, he hurried forward, saw the Indian 

girl was dead, 
And, beset with sudden terror, leaped in his 

canoe and fled. 
Judge not harshly, gentle reader, 'twas a murder 

to be sure, 
But a man is only mortal — there are things he 

can't endure. 



62 



PASSING OF THE MONARCH.* 

CILENCE deep, and keenest sorrow, shroud the 

^ valley like a pall, 

While the news, in whispers broken, casts a 
death -damp over all. 

Rolls the mighty Mississippi past the wigwam at 
the feet 

Of the braves, so late victorious, abject now, in 
dumb retreat: 

And the very heart of Nature seems to ache with 
stifled pain, 

For that life-chord, rudely broken, fondly cher- 
ished, mourned in vain. 



He is gone, the brave and noble, child of Nature, 

master-man, 
Chief by right of native merit, crowned and 

honored by the clan; 



♦Note VIII— Appendix. 63 



Peerless in the field of action, strong and stead- 
fast, sure of aim; 

In the council fair and fearless, true to every 
fireside claim. 

Fell with him his royal station, there is none to 
fill his place: 

Though his life's interpretation lingers, like a 
parting grace. 

In the river's grasp they found him, where, full 

robed, he sank to sleep; 
While the birds forgot their carols, and the skies 

above did weep: 
Yet we know, could he have willed it, he had 

chosen so to die, 
And each mortal course is ordered by the Mani- 

tou on high. 
Soft in mother earth they laid him, far beyond 

the rolling wave, 
And the winds of passing seasons sigh their 

requiems o'er his grave. 



6 4 



"PILOT'S GUIDE. "* 

^/^APTAIN," queried my companion — we were 

^ speeding with the stream, 
In the early summer twilight, as it were a 

pleasant dream, 
Just below old Hamburg city, steaming toward 

the Illinois, 
Where it meets the Mississippi, and the steamer's 

graceful poise, 
As she glided o'er the waters like a thing of 

conscious pride, 
Formed an interesting contrast to the scene on 

either side: — 
"Captain, yonder on the hill -top, towering lofty 

and alone, 
I perceive a strange white object, like a chiseled 

shaft of stone; 



*Note IX.— Appendix. frc 



Am I right in the conjecture that it represents 

some mark 
Of historical occurrence — of some depredation dark 
Wrought by gory-handed Indians on the sturdy 

pioneers, 
Who sought here to found their homesteads in 

the nation's early years ?" 

"Well, no," said the Captain slowly, stepping 

to the larboard side, 
"That old monument up yonder is the river 

pilot's guide, 
And no Indian as I know of caused it to be 

planted there, 
Though the redskins once were plenty in these 

regions everywhere. 
Over there they fought their battles, on that 

desolated plain, 
And they say that one whole nation in a single 

fight was slain; 
People go there every season in the grass to 

search around, 
And some very ugly weapons have been taken 

from the ground. 



66 



Over here the dead were buried, and these bluffs 

are lined with graves, 
Where repose the crumbling frames of many 

hundred fallen braves; 
Scientists oft come to dig them from beneath 

the covering stones, 
And have sometimes found old arrows sticking in 

the brittle bones. 

"But excuse me, sir; you asked about the story 

of the shaft 
Standing on yon crowning hill-top, which we are 

just leaving aft. 
You have read of Enoch Arden? Well, sir, this 

was such a man, 
Only no one ever found out where his troubled 

life began. 
And he never told his secret; he was here before 

we came, 
Yes, a pioneer of pilots, Marvin Thomas was his 

name. 
He came with the early traffic on this noble 

inland stream, 
Of the first to stem its current by the agency 

of steam. 



67 



Many years he plied these waters, and sometime 

the boys still feel 
As if Thomas were beside them, with his hand 

upon the wheel; 
He was liked by all who knew him, though he 

never sought a friend, 
Always ready, on occasion, with a helping hand 
to lend. 

"Thus he lived and died among us; but before 

he passed away, 
Made us take his little savings, hoarded for a 

rainy day, 
And exacted solemn promise that his clay should 

be interred 
On that hillside, where the murmur of the waters 

can be heard 
In their tender, mournful cadence, whose refrain 

shall never cease, — 
That he might lie down contented, and his spirit 

rest in peace. 
So we buried him up yonder, and that monument 

was raised 
In remembrance of him and of the early boating 

days. 



68 



And whenever we are passing, any time of day 

or night, 
Every eye in that direction seems to turn with 

keen delight; 
Like a sentinel on duty, high above the river's 

tide, 
It fulfills its friendly mission, and we call it 

'Pilots' Guide.' " 



6 9 



Verses on Various Themes 



THE FOIL OF FATE.* 

UARK, ye who have listened to stories of old, 

From history's pages and narratives told, 
Of mortal encounters on honor's grim field, 
Where blood paid the ransom that pride would 

not yield: 
Not oft in the book of American fame 
Do such things reflect on the nation's fair name; 
But once, eight and forty long summers ago, 
Where yon river's waters so placidly flow, 
There crossed out of Alton a boat-load of men, 
Intent on a conflict as thrilling as when 
Burr pointed his pistol with well -practiced art, 
And sent a ball crashing through Hamilton's heart. 

The flower and pride of the young Prairie State — 
The veterans of finance and peers of debate — 
Were parties to that dread excursion, whose end 
Each dreading, fore-guessed in the death of his 
friend — 



*Note X. — Appendix. 73 



Or one or the other of two men, whose life 
Was linked with the issues of national strife; 
Each young in the vigor of manhood and deeds, 
Espousing the tenets of opposite creeds; 
Each standing for principles equally strong, 
Inspired by the lilt of ambition's glad song, 
Though holding already high places of trust 
In office and council. They came to adjust 
A personal question of honor so grave 
That nothing, they deemed, short of bloodshed 

could save 
The fair, name of either; and yet was the cause 
A matter so small that, reflecting, we pause 
To wonder how men of their metal could deem 
Their precepts and prospects and friendly esteem 
So easily blighted. The records, though dim, 
Depict a good joke and a giddy girl's whim, 
Which wrought the estrangement and brought by 

degrees 
The challenge which nothing but blood might 

appease. 



On yonder green isle of Missouri's dark soil 
The field was selected, and swords without foil, 



74 



Keen-edged were the weapons, whose thrust 

neither feared ; 
The fighting arena was speedily cleared, 
And there, in the shade of the towering trees, 
Whose canopy waved in the murmuring breeze, 
The distance was measured, each man to his place, 
The referee called to attention and "face." 

But then, as their weapons flashed forth into place, 
A pitying protest was marked on each face 
Of those who stood by, and, by common consent, 
They cried as one voice the first blow to prevent; 
And one, in behalf of the company, said — 
A sunbeam enshrining his uncovered head: — 
"By all you believe, friends, by those whom you 

love — 
By Him who looks down on this scene from 

above — 
By party and state and your own simple worth, 
1 pray you desist; cast your weapons to earth.' ' 

A flood of revulsion as strong as the tide 
That rolled in the river so near to one side, 
Swept over each heart as, with weapons at rest, 
The duelists, clasping, their errors confessed. 



75 



A friendship was formed on that spot, which, 

though tried 
In many political battles, defied 
All thought of enstrangement. Each held in his day 
Positions of power, and conquered his way 
Through national conflict as bitter, and fraught 
With venomous hate, as the battle they sought; 
But, martyr and statesman, each willingly classed 
The other in highest esteem to the last. 

'Twas well for the nation that, by their own 

hands, 
Their blood was not spilt on those dank river 

sands. 
Their history is written, and each honored name 
Preserved in the national archives of fame, 
Rings down through the ages, a lesson sublime 
Of manhood and progress that counts for all 

time. 
The Father of Waters still washes to-day 
The point where they met, as he rolls on his 

way; 
And oft as the steamer goes laboring by, 
The passenger seeks with inquisitive eye 
Some landmark recalling, upon those green fields, 
The bloodless encounter of Lincoln and Shields. 

76 



THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN. 

TPON the old familiar height, 
^ Time-stained and weather-worn, 
It stands in hallowed majesty — 

The house where I was born. 
1 gaze upon it, deeply moved, 

And live, in fancy, o'er 
The pleasant scenes and incidents 

Of youth, that's mine no more. 

'Twas here I first beheld the light 

And found the world so fair, 
Till young ambition, waked by love, 

Undid the clasp of care; 
Here, too, I learned the earliest truth 

By blest surroundings taught, 
And builded nobler works each day 

Than since my hands have wrought. 



77 



The casements in the sunset glow 
All burnished seem with gold, 

And sparkle with reflected light 
Of memories bright and old; 

E'en as the fading day was fair 
With all that makes complete, 

Recalling of its brief career 
The story fond and sweet. 

Ah, well, if, when my work is done, 

Others its worth shall see, 
And grant that I have wrought as well 

As thou, old home, for me; 
Whose influence still, my safest guide, 

Is with me every day; 
An arm of strength and star of hope 

On life's uncertain way. 

Those humble walls are rich compared 

With others gay and grand, 
Holding a charm which none but one 

Who lived may understand. 
No grace of Nature could enhance, 

Nor artist's touch adorn 
The sacred halo that pervades 

The house where I was born. 



78 



PEARLS OF POESY. 

/^H, pearls of purest poesy, 

^^ So beautiful and rare! 

Could we but find their dwelling place, 

'Twere sweet to linger there, 
'Mid scenes of radiant light and love, 

Where inspiration's fount 
Springs up in rich abundance, from 

The heart of pleasure's mount. 

But, even as the ocean pearls 
We cherish, dearly bought, 

These jewels of the intellect, 

With life's best essence fraught, 

Are only seldom captured from 
The deepest wells of thought. 



79 



'MID SCENES OF YOUTH. 



DACK upon the dear old homestead, with the 
^ ones who love me well, 
And each object wakes an echo of fond memories 
that swell 
Like a surging tide around me, 
Where my happy childhood found me, 
Till my soul is wild within me with a joy 1 may 
not tell. 



Every voice is rich with music, as of far-off 

minstrelsy, 
And each tender thought, responsive, tells how 
good it is to be; 
'Tis an ecstasy as holy 
As the Christ-love, and as lowly 
As the humble scenes that sanctify this hallowed 
spot for me. 

80 



Every landmark is familiar, and my heart, prone 

to enjoy, 
Finds old friends with pulse ecstatic as it hailed 
its earliest toy; 
While each woodland whisper falling 
Seems an old companion calling 
From the undulating pastures where 1 wandered 
as a boy. 

All is rare and fair and fragrant, and awhile 

life's worries cease, 
As the spirit unencumbered springs aloft in glad 
release; 
While a warmth beyond concealing 
Sounds the depths of fellow-feeling, 
And 1 walk as one transported, in a realm of 
perfect peace. 



81 



A LESSON FOR LENT. 

/^\H, rest from thy troubles, thou world-weary 
^ soul ; 

Embrace and find peace in the Lord; 
Grieve not for thy failure to reach the longed goal, 

But turn to His comforting word. 

The sorrows that sadden the journey of life 
Are mellowed by prayer's earnest pleas; 

The longed-for relief from earth's jostle and strife 
The Savior's fond love will appease. 

Whenever the Tempter entices away 

Thou'lt always find help at the throne; 

And passions that rise in the world's bitter fray 
God quells and gives strength to disown. 



82 



CHRISTIAN WOMANHOOD. 

TO A YOUNG LADY FRIEND ON HER UNITING WITH THE CHURCH. 

Y^OU did not need to join the church 
1 To be and act a Christian's part, 
For truth was always on your lips, 
And God dwelt ever in your heart. 

And yet your brave admission comes 
Like a blest message from above — 

An inspiration to the world 

Reflective of the Savior's love. 

When woman's head is bowed in prayer, 
The listening angels pause to hear, 

And each petition uttered there 

Shall echo through the boundless spheres. 

Who knows how much of all the good 
Which man has compassed by degrees, 

Was given in answer to the plea 

Of women on their bended knees, — 



83 



Whose intercessions never cease 

Their missions at the Throne of Grace, 

Petitioning the Prince of Peace 
For favors to the human race. 

Blest be the Christian woman's life: 
Heav'n ordained gift, on earth divine, 

Since man, degenerate child of strife, 
First worshipped at its holy shrine. 



8 4 



BY THE RIVER. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



^ 4 /^H, river that flowest so peacefully on, 

^^ What is it I hear in thy mellow refrain 
That comforteth me for the hopes that have 
flown, 

And bringeth the peace I have prayed for in 
vain? 
Methinks as I list to thy murmuring song, 

Thou speakest in tones of condolence to me, 
And bearest my turbulent spirits along, 

Confessing a bond of relation with thee. ,, 

"O, heart grown aweary with sorrow and care, 

Weep not for the dreams thou hast failed to 

attain, 

What brooks it to yield to the voice of despair, 

Or mourn for the hopes we have cherished in 

vain? 



85 



We are but the children of Infinite will — 
Small atomic parts of the formative plan — 

Performing the tasks we were sent to fulfill, 
And ending at last where at first we began." 

"Yet thou art so merry and singest of rest 

To me who am weary of life and its woes, 
Reviving a hope in my sorrowing breast 

Of comfort and peace which this world never 
knows. 
Hast thou never troubles to ruffle thy tide, 

That ever thou seemest so cheerful and gay 
As on through the beautiful valley dost glide? 

Blest wanderer, tell me thy secret, 1 pray." 

"Yes, yes, dearest heart, I have troubles enow, 

As many, I trow, as thy pulse ever knew, 
Yet ever fulfilling my duties I go, 

Refreshing the land while meandering through. 
I nurture the fishes that bide on my breast, 

Support on my bosom the traffic of trade: 
I am but a servant, yet service is blest, 

And duty accomplished goes never unpaid. 



86 



"Do therefore be patient and cease to complain, 

Fulfilling each duty with gentle accord, 
Sure, nothing was ever created in vain, 

And time, in due season, will bring the reward. 
Aye, down at the end of the journey we plod 

The haven is waiting for thee, friend, and me: 
Thou goest to rest on the bosom of God, 

And I to my bed in the billowy sea." 



87 



THE SILVER WEDDING. 

PvEAR sweetheart, let us dream to-night the 

old dreams o'er again, 
Recall once more the joyful throng that gathered 

round us then, 
Just five -and -twenty years ago, when thou, my 

bonny bride, 
First plighted me thy maiden troth here standing 

at thy side: 
And I did promise all to thee that my fond heart 

could give, — 
To cherish, honor, and protect, long as we both 

should live; 
While fond ones pressed to wish us well, and 

sought to calm the fears 
That overflowed through those dark eyes in half 

regretful tears. 

So long ago, and yet, dear heart, it seems but 

yesterday, 
Since erst you left your childhood's home and 

came with me away; 

88 



Much have we seen and felt since then of hap- 
piness and pain, 

That left its threads of gray and gold in memory's 
silken skein: 

Together we have loved and worked through 
swiftly passing years, 

In fields of sunshine and success, and sorrow's 
vale of tears. 

Thy tresses show the silver now, but yet thou 
art as fair 

As when they wound the bridal wreath among 
thy raven hair. 

And now, as on that day when first their blessings 

freely fell, 
A merry circle gathers round, once more to wish 

us well; 
But now they are our children dear, with faces 

fresh and fair, — 
Fond hearts whose warm and tender love have 

well repaid our care. 
Yes, all are gathered round the hearth, not one 

has gone away; 
And listen, dear, for they would speak. What 

have they come to say! 



89 



"Kind parents, to whose constant care and all- 

enduring love 
We owe a debt of gratitude which naught can 

e'er remove, 
All that the coming years can give, to bless this 

quiet scene, 
We fain would have them bring to cheer and 

grace your life serene; 
And we will labor to fulfill the grateful thought 

we pray, 
That you may live as happy till your golden 

wedding day." 



90 



THE TWO ANGLERS. 

A WAY with dull duties, with business away! 
^ We're foot-loose for once, and are off for 

the day. 
Out into the country with sunlight agleam, 
'Mid infinite freedom of forest and stream. 
Here scorn we the lore and the legends of books, 
To study the science of tackle and hooks 
With interest profound, that denotes this a sport 
As rich as the rarest that mortal may court. 
But even while luring with minnow and fly 
The deep-water denizens, wary and shy, 
E'en during the typical strike, while I feel 
The weight of the captive that tugs at the reel, 
A mem'ry of childhood, a vision of old, 
Comes over me now, like a glimmer of gold 
Athwart the horizon at set of the sun, 
Recalling the dawn of a day that is done. 
And, as with a glass, where the dim shadows meet, 
I see a young hopeful, with unstockinged feet, 
Steal over the stile to the pasture beyond, 
To fish, though forbidden, down at the old pond. 



91 



Though years intervene 'twixt the boy and the man, 

A kindred affinity bridges the span. 

So quickly the latter is lost, and the lad 

Revisits the scene which his elders forbade. 

No day holds such promise, no skies are so fair, 

No pleasure so perfect or nearly so rare; 

No latest invention appeals to his soul 

As those angle worms and the sassafras pole, 

With cord-line and pin-hook he's wont to employ, 

Whenever occasion permits it — the boy 

Who down by the old pasture stile, and beyond, 

Went fishin' for suckers in grandfather's pond. 



92 



MAMMA'S VALENTINES. 

r^jF all the pretty valentines that circulate 

^ to-day, 

Methinks by far the fairest are my little ones at 

play; 
Nor aught of wit or sentiment these messengers 

convey 
Can match my babies' pathos, or the cunning 

things they say. 

There's more of joy in one brief hour of this dear 

trinity 
Of faces bright as hope's own star, of life from 

guile so free; 
And in these thumb -leaved nursery rhymes of 

sweet simplicity, 
Than all the valentines that e'er the postman 

brought to me. 

No thought by Cupid e'er transcribed on sta- 
tioner's designs, 

Though laden with heart's treasures that o'er- 
flowed between the lines, 

Was quite so pure and holy as the trusting love 
that shines 

In every little sunny face of Mamma's valentines. 



93 



THE NOBLER CREED. 

(^)H, Ingersoll, how hast thou taught 

^^ That "death is but a dreamless sleep/' 

And that life's pilgrimage is fraught 

With nothing sacred in our keep, — 
That all our service may command 

Is that which may be compassed in 
The span of earth's existence, and 

E'en "suicide is not a sin." 

An' this be true, what recompense 

Were there for all the toil and pain, 
Encountered here; what consequence 

Save that all strife, all hope were vain? 
Then truly were all things but chance 

On this forlorn, terrestrial ball, 
With life an aimless circumstance, 

And man the puppet of it all. 



94 



A nobler creed was his who penned 

The " Psalm of Life," whose lines extol 
The truth that death is not the end 

Of life: "The tomb is not its goal." 
How warms the heart to perfect trust 

In that divinely simple scroll; 
Surmounting e'en the "dust to dust," 

As never "spoken of the soul." 

Indeed, who reads great Nature's book 

Can doubt not life's immortal dower; 
The forest, field and running brook 

Teach resurrection every hour: 
Who, then, would choose with Ingersoll 

His gloomy gospel of despair? 
When "Hope" is written over all 

The earth, in lessons bright and fair. 



95 



OUT OF THE PAST. 

TN listless mood 1 sat me down to rest 

Upon the lintel of an oaken door 
Deserted years agone, and now possessed 

By clambering vines whose verdure covered o'er 
The crumbling walls that framed the happy home 

Of sturdy pioneers, whose heirs to-day 
Dwell in the shadow of yon towering dome, 

Where wealth is king, all else but common clay. 

And musing here, methought 1 heard the chimes 

Of music soft, attuned to sturdy toil, 
By those brave spirits of the early times 

Who drove the furrows through the virgin soil : 
The glad refrain — ere gold and gilded sin 

Had caught the land in their dread undertow— t 
Of blithesome lives that drank the sunshine in; 

And cheery voices, hushed long, long ago. 



96 



CONVALESCENCE. 

THERE came a robber into my home 
A One dreary September day; 
His name was Death, and he sought to steal 
The love of my life away. 

Full armed was he in his sinister quest, 

To smite with remorseless hand, 
And when I bade him begone, he scorned 

The plea of my rash demand. 

The world was drear in mine eyes that day, 
Though brightly the sun did shine, 

Hope's lamp burned low, and the birds' glad song 
Seemed nothing at all divine. 



But faith is stronger than fate, 1 ween, 
And love than a moment's fears; 

Through Him, who orders the tide of life 
And shapeth the course of years. 



97 



The hand that threatened was turned aside, 

And into the house there came 
A boundless joy when my darling woke, 

And smiled as I spoke her name. 

Her dear face glows by the hearth once more 

And, marry, this heart of mine 
Hears, 'mid the sough of the autumn gale, 

The lilt of a song divine. 



98 



BLIGHTED. 

DUT yester' eve I proudly strolled 
*-^ Among the greening orchard trees, 
Bedecked with bursting buds that told 

Of mellowy fruits in all degrees. 
Methought I saw the harvest time 

Already dawning, and the air 
Forescented by the summer's thyme, 

With plenty smiling everywhere. 
So happy in the promised yield, 

I held it e'en as certain gain, 
And all that fancy's flight revealed 
1 counted in mine own domain. 

Alack! to-day 1 walked again 

Those orchard rows, how sadly changed! 
Where all was growth and promise then 

Is naught of either. All estranged 
The landscape seems, and crumpled leaves, 

Their symmetry and beauty gone, 
Like prematurely gathered sheaves, 

Droop from the boughs they grew upon. 



99 



On every hand is quick decay — 

Sad sequence of the Frost King's blight,- 
By whom the buds of yesterday 

Were blasted in a single night. 

So have I seen the fairest hope 

That blossomed in the heart of youth, 
Crushed out in its divinest scope 

And withered by the fires of ruth. 
What lesson, what example here? 

What recompense for so much pain? 
The stricken flower, the smarting tear, 

How can we count its passing gain? 
We may not tell; we are but blind; 

We trust because we cannot know, 
That in this loss we still may find 

The wiser plan which willed it so. 



THE COMING OF THE BRIDE. 

THE peace that comes of perfect love 
And warms the constant heart, 
Be o'er this home and bless this hour 

With all its vows impart, 
While we are gathered, as of old, 

Responsive Nature stayed, 
When angels wrote the plighted troth 
Of first fond man and maid. 

Obedient to the master touch, 

The ivory keys proclaim 
A happier triumph than was e'er 

Achieved on field of fame, 
For ne'er was holier circumstance 

By music ratified, 
Than when the wedding march proclaims 

The coming of the bride. 



The hopes and fears of other years — 

The day-dreams that have sped, 
Are vanished like the summer dews 

That bowed the lily's head; 
The vague regrets and might-have-beens 

That vex the youthful breast, 
Are merged in blessed certainty 

That that which is, is best, 

Florescent sprays of mignonette, 

The pansy's graceful pose, 
The drooping branch of bleeding heart 

That blushes with the rose, 
Are symbolized in yon pure gift 

Of Flora's fairest dower, 
That sanctifies this circle with 

Its crown of orange flower. 

And as, anon, the clergyman 

With voice distinct and slow, 
Conducts the solemn services 

That join for weal or woe, 
The loftiest pledge that language e'er 

Has turned to human skill, 
Twice spoken, seals the compact with 

The glad response, "I will." 



Amen! We greet the bride and groom, 

And wish them, with the flow 
Of life's fleet tide, a peaceful cruise, 

Inspired as we go 
To draw the portieres of our hearts 

About this love -lit scene, 
And pray, "God bless them through the course 

Of years that intervene/ ' 



103 



THE SCHOOL-HOUSE ON THE HILL. 

PjOWN the lane and up the valley, through 

the pasture by the mill, 
Lies the pathway, and I follow, as it were, a 

child at will, 
Till it ends beneath the belfry of the school - 

house on the hill. 

Like a hymn of consecration, and with meaning 

as complete 
As the score of rude initials carved upon the 

rearmost seat, 
Are the merry peals of laughter and the rush of 

nimble feet 

On the playground, as I linger, fain to be a boy 

again, 
And forgetful of the changes that have marked 

my way since then — 
Innocent of all the worries of this world of busy 

men. 



104 



As by some magician's challenge, all the past is 

swept away, 
And the boys and girls of forty are the children 

of to-day, 
In this hour of intermission, given up to joyous 

play. 

Some contending in the forum to redeem the 

Golden Rule, 
Some are weaving webs of fancy from tradition's 

mystic spool ; 
Others, passed to broader vision in a better, 

higher school, 

Since they heard that bell at recess sound its 

summons, as sublime 
And as potent in its echoes down the endless 

course of Time, 
As the Sabbath morning message of the grandest 

steeple chime. 

Seems as if the voice of conscience, speaking 

through that oaken door, 
Would reproach me as unworthy of the lessons 

learned of yore — 
That those precepts should have fruited in a fund 

of riper lore. 



105 



Yet, a deeper sense assures me that whate'er I 

may have wrought 
Worthy of commemoration in the argosies of 

thought, 
Grew e'en from this humble temple where my 

A. B. C.'s were taught. 

Every memory is sacred, and the eye of fancy sees 
Joy or penitence responsive to the teacher's stern 

decrees ; 
And what pastimes! From the ball -field to the 

jolly spelling bees. 

Through the mist of life's emotions it conveys a 

subtle thrill; 
So, God grant that in the gloaming I may see it 

standing, still, 
And inhale the inspiration of the school -house on 

the hill. 



1 06 



GLAD EASTER TIME. 

OAIL the resurrection anthems 
Sounding merrily and free, 
As of old their music echoed 

O'er the tide of Gallilee; 
Heralding the final triumph 

Over sorrow and the tomb, 
Sung by every voice of nature, 

Symbolized in every bloom 
That adorns the smiling landscape 

On this merry Easter morn, 
Bright with hope and fair with promise 

Of a higher life, new-born. 

Bringing peace to all the nation 
Through the grace of love divine, 

Warming every Christian spirit, 
Like the thrill of sacred wine: 



107 



With the pulse of fellow feeling 

In the pleasure we impart, 
By the gifts which bless the giver, 

Sending joy to every heart; 
Happy in the glad fulfillment, 

Told in every steeple chime, 
Of the promises of Christmas 

In the fact of Easter time. 



1 08 



A CAMP-SIDE REVERIE. 

CORGETTING all the world's affairs, 
Its endless, vexing grind of cares, 
Perplexities and cunning snares: 

Recumbent by the fire 
Of smouldering logs, on summer night, 
Just thinking, by the flickering light, 
Good, lazy thoughts; to what delight 

More pure could man aspire? 

With nothing to disturb the mind, 
Lulled and caressed by whisp'ring wind, 
Here may the spirit, self-resigned, 

Repose in perfect peace; 
Where life's elixir comes unsought, 
Borne in the breezes, fragrance fraught, 
By every touch of nature taught, 

'Mid songs that never cease. 



109 



Songs of the insects, soft and sweet, 
Frogs in the waters at thy feet, 
And night-birds in their dark retreat, 

All help to weave the spell, 
Whose charm surcharges all my heart 
With subtle joy, the rarest art 
Of worded language to impart 

Has not the power to tell. 

No monarch in his princely bower 

E'er reveled in a richer hour, 

Nor found the subjects of his power 

More tractile to his wish, 
Than 1 in this Arcadian dream, 
While pondering many a subtle scheme 
For luring from his native stream 

My finny friend, the fish. 



THE FISH WE FAILED TO LAND. 

THROUGH the early twilight shadows, singing 
in falsetto shrill, 
Comes an urchin o'er the meadows from the 

creek across the hill ; 
Nimble footed, though so tired from his romps 

along the stream, 
Like a hero, self-inspired, while his dark eyes 

fairly gleam 
With exultant animation as he holds aloft his 

"string," 
And begins his proud narration, with the crafts- 
man's coloring. 
And he tells us, bidding slyly for another holiday, 
Of the catch of Jimmy Riley and what whoppers 

got away! 
Then — observe the tone of sorrow, as he lays the 

tempting lure — 
If he might but go to-morrow he could do much 

better, sure. 



How his daft adroitness moves you with a 

kindred feeling deep; 
And a subtle sense reproves you, as you say, 

' 'The fish will keep." 
For the voice of memory reasons from those little 

sunburned feet, 
Backward through a score of seasons thronged 

with happenings sad and sweet, 
Ruminating fancy lingers over many a fickle dream 
That has slipped between your fingers since you 

fished in yonder stream; 
And you read the grave condition, which this lad 

is yet untaught, — 
In the shade of each ambition and the recompense 

it brought; — 
That the life of man forever echoes to some vain 

regret, 
And its bravest, best endeavor was the fish he 

failed to get. 



THE HUNTSMAN. 

IP in the mum with the first peep of daylight, 
^ Out in the meadows ahead of the sun; 
Off for a respite from dull office duties, 
Over the hills with dog, tackle and gun. 

Buoyant and free as the breezes of autumn, 

Murmuring soft over woodland and wold; 
Tingles each fiber with anticipation, 

Watching each moment a mark to behold. 

Up and away, jovial and gay, 

Far from the grind of care, calm in his glee; 
Over the field, pleasure must yield, 

Joy to the hunter, contented and free. 

List! over yonder the partridge is calling, 

Hear how he thrashes the air with his wings; 

Steady! well done! see the bird lightly falling, 
Caught by my trusty retriever; he springs 



«3 



Back and away where the covey has settled, 
What tho' we miss them, the sport is the same; 

Failure but sharpens the sportman's ambition; 
Lives there a man of infallible aim? 

Thus goes the day; tell me, I pray, 

Is there a pastime as healthful and free? 

Truce to all sport others may court, 

Gun, field and dog are the fairest for me. 

Or if the scene be the river or marshland, — 
Whether for feathered or four-footed game, — 

So but success crown the earnest endeavor, 
Matters but little, the pleasure's the same. 

Sing who may list of the ball -field's attractions, 
Games that have flourished awhile and declined; 

None may compare with the pleasures that, hidden, 
Fostered by Nature, here 'wait who shall find. 

List to the horn, fresh on the morn, 
Echoing clear over woodland and lea, 

Seek if you will elsewhere, but still 

Forest and field are the fairest for me. 



ii 4 



NOT IN THE PAST. 

MOT in the past, 'midst fallen thrones, 

Haunted by ghosts of vanished power, 
Can we find answers for the needs 
And questions of the present hour. 

Not he is great who idly mourns 
The downfall of an ancient State, 

But he who strives and thinks to save 
His country from as dark a fate. 

Muse not on haughty Caesar's rule, 

Whose bones long since returned to clay; 
But in the present busy world 
Be thou the Caesar of to-day. 

O, dreamer in the aisles of Time, 

Arouse thee from thy reverie, 
Awake! Come to the front and fight 

For thy own home and liberty: 
Turn from the ruins of the past 

To that which is, and is to be! 



115 



MONOTONE. 

f~^H, monotone, — of warring words 
^^ That echo to life's vain appeal, 
Or weave their phantom frames about 

The image of each lost ideal, — 
Of winds that whistle evermore, 

And seem to mock, malignantly, 
All things that bide upon the earth 

And, fettered, struggle to be free. 

Oh, voice of Nature, vast and lone, 

Though by each passing sound instilled, 

Gathered through all the ages flown, 
And with quintescent sadness filled; 

Like some lost spirit making moan 
For every promise, unfulfilled. 



116 



THE IMAGE BREAKER. 

CTAND back! thou rash iconoclast! 

^ Lift not thy prodding spade to blast 

Yon sacred temple of the dead! 

What wouldst thou with the weapons dread 

That guard this long-lost people's dust? 

To pander an ignoble lust, 

And steal the secrets of the past! 

No grave can hold its treasure fast; — 

No fame so high, no shrine so pure — 

No hallowed image is secure 

Against the sacrilegious blade 

That marks the relic-hunter's trade! 

In every nook of every land 
Are works of his defacing hand; 
And why? What has he for his toil? 
A pile of useless, crumbling spoil, 
Which cannot serve one worthy end, 
Much less his lawless work defend. 

O, cease, traducer of the grave, 
Leave to the past her rusted glave; 
Leave them in peace — these mummied things- 
And study truth from living springs; 
Confine thyself to modern bounds, 
And let tradition guard these mounds. 
117 



TO A TREE FROG. 

CAUCY little elfin prophet, 

^ Challenging the thirsty wold 

From its fitful mid -day slumber 

With thy croaking, harsh and bold- 
How dost know a storm is brewing, 

When no cloud is in the sky? 
And each drooping thing about thee 

Seems to give thee back the lie? 

Hast some subtle intuition 

In thy secret cell of bark? 
Or a mystic cipher message 

From the Rain God's distant ark? 
Or art merely telling falsely 

To awaken doubt and strife? 
If so, and I had thee captive, 

It should quickly cost thy life, 

Nay, but I believe thee, truly; 

Thou wast reared in Nature's heart, 
Where no falsehood e'er is nourished, 
And shouldst know thy single art 
Over more pretentious prophets: 

Else thy lot were wholly vain. 
All athirst the world is waiting, 
Speed the promise — let it rain. 

118 



THE LESSON OF COLUMBUS.* 

"r^OLUMBUS!" how the chorus swells in 

^ honor to the name, 
As on this festal day we meet to celebrate his 

fame, 
And fling the flags of freedom on the sombre 

autumn breeze, 
E'en as of old they waved for him upon the 

friendly seas, 
As from the court of Spain his ships went out 

with sails unfurled, 
To battle with the elements and find another world. 

Four hundred years ago, and yet it does not 

seem so long: 
The memory is so well preserved in history and 

song; 
Each child has heard the story of that earnest, 

fearless man, 
Who braved a thousand unknown deaths to verify 

his plan, 
That, far beyond the Western skies, where none 

had gone before, 
The sun that seemed to dip the wave, shone on 

some fairer shore. 



*Note XL— Appendix. 119 



A mighty thought it was, than which no nobler 

e'er was known; 
And greater still the master mind that faced the 

world alone, 
With fortitude to bear the taunts of unbelief, 

and then 
Persuade a doubting monarch to provide the 

means and men 
To prove his theory correct, or forfeit with his own, 
Those other lives, and bring reproof upon the 

Spanish throne. 

Thus from the life which gave the world this 

Western hemisphere 
We learn our noblest lesson still, — to dare and 

persevere. 
All that we have achieved since then is from that 

precept drawn, 
Still nerving us to better deeds and pointing on 

and on: 
E'en as of old Columbus' ships, with silken sails 

unfurled, 
Were guided o'er the trackless deep to find 

another world. 



BALLAD OF THE BRAVE. 

OARK! hark to the beating 

Of music repeating 
The charge for the meeting 

Of armies of old. 
But softly, more slowly, 
More hallowed and holy, 
Each patriot bows lowly 

Whenever 'tis told; — 

The story recalling 
Of battles befalling 
With carnage appalling 

From sabre and shell ; 
Where heroes unbending 
For honors contending, 
Their colors defending, 

Fought, conquered and fell. 



This day does the Nation 
In proud celebration 
Of commemoration, 

Bring flowers and tears, 
Their graves fondly strewing, 
And praises renewing, 
The fame of whose doing 

Fades not with the years. 

Old comrades repeating, 
Ere once more retreating, 
The bivouac's greeting 

Above the green mold ; 
And they, in their glory 
Of battle-fields gory, 
Sleep on through the story 

That never grows old. 



ONCE MORE WITH REJOICING. 

/^NCE more with rejoicing, fair day, in thy 
^ glory, 

We welcome the memories thy echoes recall; 

From pulpit and stage we repeat the glad story, 

How freedom first echoed through liberty's hall. 

In glad celebration 

The sons of the nation 
Assemble again 'neath the red, white and blue — 

With memories glowing, 

And hearts overflowing. 
With all that is loyal and tender and true. 

'Tis meet that we come thus in fancy reviewing 
The scenes where was planted fair liberty's tree, 
Each young generation the pledges renewing 
That made our country "the land of the free;" 

With rocket and rattle 

Repeating the battle 
Wherein the oppressor was conquered and fell ; 

Each stroke from the steeple 

And shout of the people 
Recalling the chimes of the Liberty bell. 



123 



Dear land for whose welfare our fathers have striven, 

To free thee forever from tyranny's rod 
Thy past we bequeath to the keeping of heaven — 
Thy future we trust to the mercy of God. 

With hearts proudly beating, 

Hozannas repeating, 
We leave thee again to the guidance Divine; 

May wars never scatter 

Thy homesteads, or shatter 
The banner that waves over Liberty's shrine. 



124 



LIFE'S RURAL WAY. 

CAR from the city's noisome scenes away 

Happy are those who thread earth's rural way. 
Not in the crowd that throngs the busy street, 
Among the fleeting faces that we meet; 
Not in the whirl of the commercial mart, 
The school of pleasure or the hall of art, 
Nor anywhere in this chaotic round 
Is life's complete fulfillment ever found, 

Go ye who this most fragrant flower would find, 
Of sweet contentment to the soul and mind, 
Go seek where nature's bounty freely yields 
The restful opulence of sunny fields; 
Aye, go and be as yonder sturdy swain 
Who knows or cares not that his dress is plain, 
Whose best ambition from his daily toil 
To glean the product of the native soil. 



125 



Nothing to him is fashion's frail regard, 
The thirst for office or its false reward: 
He worships fortune with his own right hand ; 
Is self-dependent, — bows to no command, — 
And spurns the dullard who presumes to scorn 
The honest value of an ear of corn. 

With him to dwell among the orchard trees, 
Inhale the fragrance of the fruitful breeze, 
Or in the woods, of other days to dream, 
Soothed by the ripple of some pasture stream; 
Here dwells the peace of pleasure most profound, 
Spiced by the salt of duty's daily round. 
Blessed beyond the common ken are they 
Who thus elect to tread life's rural way. 



126 



LIKE AS A STAR. 

STOOD upon the vernal height 
Of youth, and gazing out afar, 
Beheld the iridescent light 

Of Fortune, like a shooting star; 
Harnessed to hopes that in their reach 

Outspanned the noblest mind's desire; 
And which, translated into speech, 

Would glow with inspiration's fire. 

Then, looking down, 1 saw below 

A shadow flitting in the dark, 
And threading cables to and fro 

To drag to earth that shining mark. 
To rise or fall — to wane or shine, 

Such is the struggle, passing o'er; 
Transcendent as a light divine, 

Or falling, to be seen no more. 



127 



E'en such is life — an orb of light 

Drifting athwart the vault of Time; 
A day-star jeweled in the night 

Of earth's dark ways — a spark sublime 
That, tending upwards in its course, 

And growing still to more and more, 
Would thrill the droning world, and force 

Its light beyond the finite shore. 

But in the shadow-lands of sin 

There lurk the demons of despair, 
Weaving their webs of doubt, wherein 

Bright spirits find their fatal snare. 
'Twixt hope to rise, and fear to fall — 

So passes every mortal span; 
While One, presiding over all, 

Works out the great Creative Plan. 



128 



WHAT MIGHT NOT BE. 

]\]AY, do not think me cold of heart 

Because I never spoke of love; 
Nor charge me with so base a part 

As these old letters seem to prove. 
Friends let us be, as erst we were; 

And though we may not quite forget, 
Let naught that others may aver 

Bring back to us one vain regret. 

Had I but dared, I might have told — 
But no, this cannot help us now: 
Duty forbade that sacred vow. 

Perchance the future yet may hold 
For us some sweet reward in store, 
When love illumes a brighter shore. 



129 



HEROES UNREVEALED. 

\A7HO said our heroes all were gone? 
Not so! By heaven, 'tis untrue! 
Ye measure but what men have done, 
And not what others yet may do. 

True, those were brave who fought our wars 
And, honor-crowned, have gone to rest, 

But then it needs not battle scars 
The spirit's valor to attest. 

The land has many sons as brave, 
Who never saw the bloody field, 

As those who faced a nameless grave 

Their country's flag from shame to shield. 

Though yet, perchance, it sleeps unkenned — 
Uncalled, and therefore unconfessed, 

Let but Columbia call: "Defend!" 
The fire will blaze in every breast. 

"To arms!" let once the trumpet peal, 
And mark the answering host immense: 

With courage strong and hearts as leal 
As ever fought in her defense. 



130 



IN THE OLD PRISON CEMETERY. 

OARK, to the beat of myriad feet that over hill 

^ and dell 

Come to dispose the graves of those who for 

their country fell! 
Sad recompense for their defence of this fair land 

of ours; 
We go each year with grateful tears, and strew 

their graves with flowers. 
With fife and drum again we come, and flags 

unfurled to view, 
As erst they came, and laud their fame — the boys 

who wore the blue. 

But where are they who wore the gray and 

perished far from home, 
Whose life, enthralled in prison walls, went out 

unwept, unknown? 
Fond hearts that yearned for their return were 

anxious all in vain, 
Straining the view till their life, too, went out in 

silent pain. 



131 



Unmarked to-day they sleep, and, aye, the voice 

of love is mute; 
None visit here, with flowers and tears, to fire 

the grave's salute; 
Yet who may tell but, just as well, they rest 

beneath the moss, 
As those whose bed is heralded by towering 

shaft and cross? 
The stone that marks the soldier's rest, here 

'neath the greening sod, 
Points from these quiet meadows, through the 

shadows, up to God. 



132 



A WORD.* 

A WORD, a breath, that scarcely moves, 
Which to no soul one tremor brings — 
A word, that shakes earth's deepest grooves 
And bears the whirlwind on its wings. 

A word, a sound, in earnest spoken, 

That thrills the heart with quickening touch, 

Has oft united, oft has broken — 
A word, so little yet so much. 

A word of doom ; ah ! who knows whether 
He hath not lengthened that dark scroll? 

A word of love, like unctioned feather, 
It heals some weary, wounded soul. 

A word of light, illumes the mountain, 

Or shrouds the vale of life's reverse. 
A word! 'tis joy's or sorrow's fountain: 
A benediction, or a curse. 



Note XII. — Appendix. 133 



THE SUBMERGED CITY.* 

CROM the ocean's depths 'mid sea-weeds 
springing, 

Curfew bells are ringing soft and low, 
To the sailors' eyes strange tidings bringing 

Of the grand old town that lies below. 

Deep within the heaving depths of the ocean 
Are its turrets standing far below, 

And above them is the billow's motion 
Lighted with a strange and fitful glow. 

And the sailor who, at sunset peering, 
Saw the magic light from off the shore, 

In that same direction still is steering, 

Though the billows round him madly roar. 

From my heart's deep fountains, sadly springing, 

Memory's bells are ringing soft and low; 
To my sea-sick soul strange tidings bringing 

Of the dear old friends of long ago. 
Ah! a beauteous city there lies sleeping — 

Like a glimpse of paradise it seems — 
Oft when I beheld its turrets, weeping, 

In the blessed mirror of my dreams. 



*Note XIII. — Appendix. 134 



A THRENODY OF TEARS. 

DEPRESS not the bright tear that dims thine eye, 
Since, dear, I know that it v/as meant for me : 
May I but kiss the love -lit token dry 

That trembles on thy lids so witchingly! 
Through tears like these angelic spirits shine, 
And 1 would know thee never less divine. 

Yet every tear, alas, betokens pain, 

And is the sign of tender soul's unrest; 

And I do pray thee, dearest, to refrain 

From judgment, if my tongue hath seemed to jest. 

Claim thou my heart's blood, who hast wept for me, 

And hold me still for aye in debt to thee. 

Sometimes, when others dared to call me base, 
And sinister hatred barred my humble way; 

I found sweet inspiration in thy face, 

As angels pure, who at God's footstool pray. 

And were I bad at heart as they have said, 

No seraph for me had bowed her weeping head. 



135 



Peace, darling, I will dry them, every one — 
The tears thou'st wept on this devoted breast, — 

Thus they have gone: their holy work is done, 
And through the pain there comes love's per- 
fect rest. 

Nay, weep no more — and at God's altar fair, 

I'll weave the myrtle in thy silken hair. 



136 



A SONG OF LABOR DAY. 

TTO-DAY the toilers of the land, with sturdy 

voice and tread, 
Proclaim how good a thing it is to strive for 

honest bread. 
A mighty bannered host they march, like veterans 

to the wars, 
And proudly every man salutes the nation's stripes 

and stars: 
Nor grander army e'er went forth to fight in 

Freedom's name, 
Than they who on this festal day their loyalty 

proclaim 
To home and country, church and State, — to 

every grace that gives 
Each man the ample blessings of the sphere in 

which he lives. 

Though military armament and code be missing 

here, 
Much more there is of hope and faith, much less 

of doubt and fear; 



137 



Where every man a soldier is, to follow and 

command, 
Himself a host; his battlefield, the labors of his 

hand. 

Honor the hero and the time, and let forensic art 
Rehearse the lessons and the truths which are its 

highest part. 
Proud is the nation in her strength, but proudest 

most of those 
Who make her fields and factories, and to whose 

might she owes 
The garnered wealth that makes her great — by 

whose support she stands 
Above all others of the earth, the queen of happy 

lands. 
Be this the motto of the hour: " 'Tis noblest to 

be true, 
With hand and heart to every task that duty 

brings us to." 



138 



DEFERRED. 

OOK you at yon two radiant orbs 
Approaching in the Western sky, 
So closely that their light absorbs 

The space between, to mortal eye. 
We gaze across the distance and 

In fancy see the stars embrace; 
Pleased, though we may not understand 

This love scene in the realms of space. 
But mark how brief the tryst has been; 

Where lately they appeared as one, 
Now shines a streak of gold between, 

Reflected from the setting sun, 
Yes, Nature's laws must be obeyed, 

E'en here as in the lives of men, 
And years shall lengthen to decades, 

Ere yon two planets meet again. 

So have I known — pray who has not? — 
Two souls that for each other seemed 

Designed: whose every act and thought 
Each in the other's self redeemed. 



139 



And here, methought, is one ideal 

Of poets dreamed, in fact fulfilled; 
While, gazing on their bliss so real, 

My soul with kindred rapture thrilled. 
Alas, when next I looked, a spell 

Of sadness on each face was set, 
Betraying, as they said, "Farewell," 

The shadow of a life's regret. 
Yet purpose rules the orb of earth, 

And 'spite of all its purchased pain, 
The hopes that fade in sorrow's dearth, 

Though long deferred, are not in vain. 



140 



SING WE OF LOVE. 

"T ONG, long ago, love," 
Thus runs the song; 
Sweetly the music 

Ripples along. 
Hark! how the rhythm, 

Tender and slow, 
Echoes our young love, 

Long, long ago. 

What does it teach us, 

Love, can you hear? 
Borne in the measure 

Year after year; 
Seasons of gladness — 

Moments of woe — 
Whereof we dreamed not 

Long, long ago. 

Have we regrets, love? 

E'en did we stray 
Near to the edge of 

Life's pleasant way? 

i 4 i 



Be this forgotten; 

How could we know 
Where there was danger 

Long, long ago? 

Such is love's guerdon — 

Counting as gain 
Every achievement 

Compassed through pain. 
Therefore we sing, since 

God willed it so, 
Happier now than 

E'en, long ago. 



142 



THE SILENT SENTINEL. 

A S the picket lone who, stationed, 
When the army rests at large, 
Guards the sleeping camp from danger 

By the foemen's stealthy charge, 
Stands the conscience in the vanguard 

Of the mind's defensive host, 
Challenging each doubtful motive 
That would pass the outer post. 

Safe the heart while conscience, faithful, 

Watches on the outer wall, 
And each better pulse responsive, 

Rallies at the warning call, 
But the soul is deep in danger 

If this guardian flinch or fall. 



143 



THE MUSIC OF THE WHEEL. 

/^FT while waiting slumber's coming 
^^ I have listened to the drumming, 
As of some great bee-hive humming, 

Of the steamer's ponderous wheel; 
And the troubled waters gushing, 
In their pent-up quarters flushing, 
As if anxious, in their rushing, 

To escape the rudder's heel. 

How the paddles' rhythmic measure 
Hurls the foam from their embrasure, 
Seemingly in savage pleasure, 

With each turning of the wheel; 
While the river, gliding under 
With a swell like distant thunder, 
Brings suggestive thoughts to ponder 

Till the senses fairly reel ! 

Thus the mighty palpitation 
And the dull reverberation 
Time the steady oscillation 

Of the massive shafts of steel, 
Until Fancy goes off dancing, 
Into Dreamland's shadows prancing, 
Like the spray -beat waves aglancing 

From the vessel's flying keel. 
i 44 



HYPOCRISY. 

]\TOT from the round of mortal cares 
The worry of the world's affairs, 
Its open pits and hidden snares; 
From obstacles that block life's way 
As down the path from day to day 
Toward the final goal we stray, 
Would I most fain be free: 

But from the cant of party schools, 
The babble of pedantic fools, 
The senseless sway of Fashion's rules; 
From friends who do not sympathize, 
Who poison grief with hollow sighs 
And flatter truth with conscious lies, — 
From these deliver me. 



M5 



THE BATTLE OF BRAINS. 

IMAPOLEON stood grieving on Helena's isle; 

He thought of his forfeited crown, 
And of the mistake in the battle which turned 

The tide of his life and renown. 
"Had Grouchy not failed me," he bitterly said, 

"We could not have lost, that is plain; 
The French would have won and the vultures of war 

Had feasted on Wellington's brain. " 

Life is but a bivouac, the world is its field, 

And men are all soldiers of fame, 
Who struggle for points of position and place, 

Where honors are fraught with acclaim. 
Engagements are many, and skirmishes oft 

Take place on disputed domain, 
But all the great victories counting for time 

Are wrought through the battle of brain. 



146 



This greatest of conflicts the world ever knew 

Is waging forever and aye; 
Wherever men meet, e'en in labors of love, 

They join in the ceaseless affray. 
Each grapples his neighbor and struggles with might 

Some stealthy advantage to gain, 
And one must go down — inexorable tide 

Of fate in this conquest of brain. 

Each man is a private, enlisted tor life, 

Or drafted for service in youth, 
And none may avoid it, e'en bodily ills 

Commend nor exemption or ruth. 
Though thousands disabled are sent to the rear, 

Their trouble ends not in the pain: 
Aye! still unavoidable unto the last, 

It rages — the battle of brain. 

Here are no deserters, nor bushwhacking clans, 

For none may avoid, or invade 
The code of fair conquest, and yet, in the end 

All soldiers are pensioned and paid. 
Each one is rewarded as he may achieve, 

And none ever conquered in vain, 
And leisure and pleasure are guerdon for all 

Who win the great battle of brain. 



H7 



IN AFTER YEARS. 

ET us walk again, dear Allie, 

Down the peaceful twilight valley; 
O'er the lealand to the pebble-garnished shore, 

Where the evening lights are gleaming, 

And thy poet's fancy, dreaming, 
Like the love of other years, has gone before. 

Thinking of the sweet old story, 

When, by yonder promontory, 
Thou didst own the dear regard that made thee mine, 

Thrills my soul with subtle sadness, 

Born of all those years of gladness, 
Like the sparkling after-taste of seasoned wine. 

While the harbor wind's low droning 

All the tenderness is owning 
That companionship hath brought to thee and me; 

And the voice of memory calling, 

On the ear so softly falling, 
As the ceaseless, mellow sounding of the sea. 



Time hath fled, dear, since the season 
When, by love's exquisite reason, 

First we walked the beach together, hand in hand; 
Yet our course hath had no turning 
Since 1 stooped and, thrilled with yearning, 

Marked our monogram upon the shifting sand. 

Youth is fickle, time is fleeting, 

Every pleasure is retreating, 
And the heart may sleep to-night that warms to-day ; 

But for us the pristine glory 

Ne'er shall fade from life's fond story, 
Who abide, each in the other, while we may. 



149 



WHEN THE HOUSEWIFE IS AWAY. 

A LL the house is strangely dreary, 

That was always erst so cheery, 
And a something sad and eerie 

Dwells within, that seems to say: 
' 'There is none here to reprove us, 
Much less challenge and remove us 
From the shadowy nooks that love us, 
Since the housewife is away." 

Seems the bric-a-brac all tarnished, 
And the furniture unvarnished, 
Every article dust-garnished, 

Never so until to-day; 
There is chaos from the table 
To the rusted kitchen ladle, 
And, alack! the empty cradle 

Tells that mamma is away. 

Not the blissful daily meeting, 
Nor one word of kindly greeting, 
No familiar sound repeating 

Save the saucy mice at play; 
And the husband lingers only 
To select a hearth more homely, 
For the house is all too lonely 

When the little wife's away. 
150 



A WINTER'S STORM. 

PvARK is the sky, of inky hue, 

Lost every faintest gleam of light; 
No friendly star appears in view 

To cheer us with its presence bright, 
For once the prophecies were true, — 

The storm -king is abroad to-night. 
The wind, like some lost, living thing, 

Moans 'round the house with doleful screech; 
Sets every timber shuddering, 

Chastising all within its reach; 
Threshes the river with its wing, 

And hurls the breakers on the beach. 

Trembles the earth beneath the strain 

And seems to plead for clemency, 
Spurned by the storm in cold disdain, 

Which laughs aloud in savage glee; 
While from the lowering clouds, the rain 

Is swept in torrents o'er the lea. 
God help the vessel, gone amiss, 

That rides the deep with sails unfurled 
Amid the roaring tempest's hiss: 

And 'fend each soul by fate imperiled 
To wander, on a night like this, 

Homeless and friendless through the world ! 

151 



a^r 



IF WE WERE YOUNG AGAIN. 

HINK you," my dear wife said to me, 
One evening as we sat at tea, 
'Would we as fond and foolish be 

If we were young again?" 
'Methinks it surely could not be, 
And we would live as merrily, 
With less of youth's frivolity, 

If we were young again. 

'How many an endless debt we owe 
For inconsiderate V es ' or <n °/ 
That surely we would now forego 

If we were young again; 
And looking backward o'er life's plain, 
What gloomy days, what bitter pain 
Are there, that might be lasting gain 

If we were young again. 

152 



4 'Twere sweet to walk those thymy ways 
With lowlier hearts, more prone to praise, 
And leave no rue for later days — 
If we were young again." 
"Nay, love," I answered, "age is prone 
To censure from its sombre throne 
As faults, acts we would proudly own 
If we were young again. 

"Forgetting how it grew to be, 
It views, through glasses, scornfully, 
Motes of misconduct none might see 

If we were young again; 
Those foibles of the early years, 
Chastened by riper joys and tears, 
Temper the whole, which God reveres — 

Though we were young again. 

"Those acts we now would fain recall 
Would hold us in their pleasant thrall, 
Nor would we deem them strange, withal, 

If we were young again. 
Nay, we would scorn youth's Paradise, 
Discover with the self-same eyes, 
But just as foolish — and as wise, — 

If we were young again." 



153 



THE ROSE. 

PLUCKED a rose with careless hand, 

Gazed on its perfect charms unmoved, 
And, marking scarce that it was fair, 

I gave it to the girl I loved. 
She took it with a gracious smile 

That might dispel the deepest gloom, 
And, holding up the trembling thing, 

Bade me inhale its sweet perfume. 

As I obeyed her dear behest 

I caught a scent so sweet and rare 

It seemed sublime, and which before 
1 had not dreamed lay hidden there. 

She pinned it fast, when I beheld 

A thousand beauties it possessed, 

Yet which I ne'er had marked until 

I saw it blushing on her breast. 



154 



>uch thy mission here, 

Sent as a blessing to the earth 
To find for us each fragrant flow 

That blooms amid life's and dearth., 

Our natures are too coarsely strung, 

Our days too full of busy hours 
To note, unprompted, and en; 

The fragi e of the wayside flowers. 

. has not any joys on earth — 
No hour of pure and perfect glee, — 
O woman, pearl of priceless worth, 

That does not, somehow, come from thee. 
f the fairest flower of all 
at man may worship in hi 
Thy mission is to help and ble 

And cheer him on his weary way. 



*55 



SEPTEMBER SYMPHONIES. 

lVfOW comes the mellow time of year, 

When o'er the smiling land 
The genius of the harvest rides 

And casts, with bounteous hand, 
The golden fruits of labor to 

The gleaners of the field, 
Whose honest hearts o'erflow with thanks 

For each abundant yield. 

Now calls again the whippoorwill, 

And in the ripened grass 
The crickets and the katydids 

Repeat their nightly mass. 
The quail is piping in the woods, 

And by the river's edge 
The bull -frog croaks his plaintive lay 

Among the broken sedge. 

The ripening nuts begin to fall, 

The leaves to lose their sheen, 
Each towering monarch of the woods 

Puts on a duller green. 
Anon the stiffening breezes bring 

Their warning o'er the wold, 
Jack Frost is riding down the wind 

With Winter's chariot cold. 
156 



THE FAIREST SCENE. 

(^NE night I sat and mused alone, 
^^ Enraptured, in a trance serene; 
1 thought of all the sorrows flown, 

And all the pleasures I had seen. 
Fair visions passed before my view, — 

The ghosts of revels I had kept — 
Till, wearied of the long review, 

My eyes grew heavy and I slept. 

And then methought an angel came 

And stood beside me in the gloom; 
About her forehead played a flame 

That sent a halo through the room. 
She cast a kindly glance at me, 

Then touched my hand and whispered low : 
'Corne, go with me and you shall see 

The fairest scene that earth can show." 

I followed her across the green, 

And onward through a lonely wood, 
To where, amid the peaceful scene, 

A shade -embowered cottage stood, 
Nestled among the swaying trees. 

She drew the blinds and sweetly smiled: 
Within, a mother on her knees 

Was praying for her sleeping child. 

157 



PILGRIM'S PRAYER. 

r^OD lend us light 

And teach us right, 
And lead us safely through the night 

Of life's dark way, 

Lest we should stray 
From home and hope of Heaven away. 

Teach us to see 

Our liberty 
As blessings coming all from Thee, 

And grant us skill 

With strength and will, 
To climb to nobler conquests still. 

Thy grief forbear 

If tempting snare 
Has e'er misled us anywhere; 

Nor grant Thy wrath 

This aftermath 
If we have tarried by the path. 



158 



Inspire us yet 

Lest we forget 
The landmarks where our journey's set; 

And on and on, 

By duty drawn, 
Conduct us towards a fairer dawn. 

So hold us fast, 

Until at last 
The final milestone has been passed: 

Then, safe and blest, — 

Our faults confessed, — 
Within Thy Kingdom give us — rest. 



159 



IN LATE OCTOBER. 

JJOW grand, beyond comparison, these late 

October days, 
Wrapped in the mellow drapery of the Indian 

Summer's haze? 
'Tis pleasure's purest essence now upon some 

crowning hill 
To stand and drink the beauties of the landscape, 

broad and still; 
Or, drifting in the valley with the softly purling 

stream, 
To flood the wells of fancy with the sweet, 

transcendent dream 
That permeates the atmosphere and, in the 

forest, weaves 
Its themes amid the tangle of the variegated leaves. 



1 60 



The charms of budding spring-time and of sum- 
mer's growing field 

Are shallow when compared with those these 
halcyon hours yield ; 

The undertone of insect life that murmurs, half 
subdued, 

Beguiles the wordly soul into an introspective 
mood, 

And teaches, by comparison, the better part of life — 

The peace of resignation coming after toil and strife, 

Whence man's ambitious spirit learns its longings 
to appease, 

That earth's divinest music oft is pitched in 
minor keys. 



161 



A PICTURE. 

^T^IS dusk on the river; the dews, softly falling, 

Are decking the tree -tops with sparkles of 

light. 

From out the low willows the throstle is calling 

And plaintively singing her song to the night. 

Among the tall maples the whippoorwilPs chiding 

Vociferous frogs that are croaking below, 
While slyly the night-hawk comes forth from her 
hiding 
And startles the bats as they flit to and fro. 

Far over the river the moonlight is gleaming, 
Reflecting the forms of the shadowy grove, 

With all the bright stars, so benignantly beaming 
From out their blue depths in the heavens above ; 

While down by the water a poet sits dreaming, 
And weaves a fair song for the maid of his love. 



162 



A PLAINT OF THE ANCIENT GREEK. 

/^H, for some Hyperborean strand! 
^-^ Some favored ^Ethiopian shore; 
Where, by soft Halcyon breezes fanned, 

The soul might rest forevermore! 
Where Pan, the shepherd, herds his flock 

And sweetly play the ^olian lutes, 
And Venus, sitting on the rocks, 

Lends Love's sweet charm to all pursuits. 

Where soft Apollo blows his horn, 

The Muses charm each soul to rest, 

From when Aurora wakes the morn, 
Till Vesper settles in the West; 

Where Jupiter his lightnings saves, 
And Hera reigns in full control; 

While gay, on Neptune's charmed waves, 
The sea-nymphs gambol as they roll. 



163 



Where, all unknown the field of Mars — 

Save when Diana roams the gorge, 
And all the household gods of Lars 

Do light their fires at Vulcan's forge. 
Where Bacchus brews his foaming bowl- 

The Graces, with their finer arts, 
Subdue the Vampires of the soul, 

And Momus rules each joyous heart. 

There would I sit in Herme's halls, 

And learn Minerva's golden lore; 
Unheeding Fate's incessant squalls 

That vex us on this troubled shore. 
O, Emerald Isle beyond the seas! 

I, weary on life's dismal strand, 
Am waiting for the gods' decrees 

To call me to that happy land! 



164 



THE POET AND HIS SONG. 

"W HEN wil1 the poet ' s song be done?,, 

As well ask of the setting sun 
When it behind the Western hills 
Will sink to rise no more. 
"But will not time exhaust his dream, 
And leave him but a threadbare theme 
Of which some earlier Homer's quill 
Has written long before ?" 

Didst ever hear the robin sing, 
Or watch the throstle on the wing, 
Or mark the summer storm-cloud roll 

Athwart the welkin blue? 
Didst ever walk the beach along 
And listen to the ocean's song 
But that its echoes thrilled thy soul 

With something strange and new? 

165 



Didst ever walk the city street 

And mark each face you chanced to meet, 

Look on each cot and temple door 

Along the thoroughfare? 
Hast ever trod a rural way 
Where you have wandered many a day, 
Nor marked new objects which, before, 

You never noted there? 

So is it with the poet's lay: 

He sees beyond the dark array 

Of toil and troubles, doubts and fears, 

That vex the common mind; 
With knowledge gained through higher art, 
He finds the key to every heart, 
And strives for all life's bitter tears 

Some soothing balm to find. 

Through every nook of Nature's soul 

The Muse is given leave to stroll, 

And pluck each fragrant flower of thought 

That blossoms 'mid the thorn; 
And every flow'ret, fair or frail, 
She weaves into a tender tale 
Whereby some new-born truth is taught 

Life's temple to adorn. 

166 



For those who in the eager quest 
Of wealth, find never time to rest, 
Save now and then a casual glance 

Upon the printed page; 
The poet's many-tinted leaves 
Are gathered, though he oft receives 
But little praise, till he, perchance, 

Hath found a higher stage. 

But, long as Nature's tireless hand 
Brings forth her lessons new and grand, 
And any of the wordly throng 

Find pleasure in the dream — 
While earth is fair and women pure, 
While sun and moon and stars endure, 
The poet still will sing his song 

And never lack a theme. 



167 



APPENDIX. 



NOTE I. — The region along the shores on both sides of the Mis- 
sissippi between the points of the confluence of the Illinois and Missouri 
rivers with the Father of Waters, is particularly rich in legendary stories 
concerning the life and habits of the powerful tribes of Indians who 
were the original owners of these fertile valley lands. Along the bluffs 
on the Illinois side are numberless burial places where the bones of 
thousands of "the first Americans" repose, while the valleys and prairie- 
stretches for some distance back from the river afford constant reminders 
of their presence and handiwork in the dim ages of the past. From the 
time of the earliest frontier expeditions, this locality has been con- 
spicuous among the chronicles for the number and peculiar charm of the 
folk-lore stories handed down from one generation to another, and held 
in almost sacred reverence by the Indians. And among these, dating 
from the famous expedition of Marquette, none is more striking and 
interesting than that of the Piasa Bird. That this was more than a mere 
myth is attested by the evidence of many early settlers who got the story 
in minute detail from the Indians themselves, and by the painting that 
remained upon the face of the perpendicular bluffs within the present 
limits of the city of Alton, until quarried away just about the close of the 
first half of the present century. The picture that forms the frontispiece 
of this book is from a painting from the original made by Mr. John B. 
Blair, an artist of genius and renown, who died in Chicago, in December, 
1895. It is now owned by Prof. E. Marsh, of this city. The story is fully 
told in the poem. 

NOTE II.— Next to that of the Piasa Bird, the legend of Lover's 
Leap is perhaps the most noted and interesting of any that cluster around 
the vicinity of Alton, 111., but this is the first time that it has ever 
appeared in written form. The point described is located at the southern- 

168 



most extremity of Prospect street, in the city of Alton, where it ends in a 
sheer bluff rising two hundred feet from the bank of the river. It is one 
of the few landmarks of special interest in this vicinity that have escaped 
the defacing hand of civilization, and commands one of the most mag- 
nificent views to be found anywhere in the Mississippi valley. 

NOTE III. — The history of heroism in all ages and among all 
nations of the globe furnishes few instances of such magnanimous self- 
sacrifice as that of this savage of the American forests, and the story of 
his deed does not coincide very well with the oft-repeated and much- 
credited statement that the Indian possesses no sense of honor, and is 
incapable of any of the finer traits of character commonly attributed to 
the people of every other race and nation. There has been some dispute 
as to his age. and at least one commentator claims that he was very 
young, instead of a man well advanced in years, when he made himself 
immortal: but the writer, having examined all evidence obtainable, is 
satisfied that he has given a true and exact rendition of the legend. 

NOTE IV.— The topographical peculiarity that forms the foundation 
for this poem is indeed most remarkable, and the legend connected there- 
with is about the most positive of any of the relative themes treated in 
this book. There can be no question that the story is true, and the old 
French village of Portage des Sioux, located on the west bank of the 
Mississippi, in St. Charles county, Mo., bears to-day many unmistakable 
evidences of early inhabitance by the Indians. A series of mounds 
within its confines have yielded to the delver's spade some of the richest 
specimens of aboriginal pottery and implements of war ever unearthed 
in this country. 

NOTE V.— One of the most beautiful effects which the diversity 
of nature along the limestone bluffs, facing the river in Jersey county, 
Illinois, affords, is presented in the valley four miles below the mouth 
of the Illinois river where the Piasa Bluffs Assembly holds its annual 
summer meetings. This corporation was formed about twelve years ago 
for the purpose of religious worship and general culture away from city 
life during the pleasant summer months, by a company of fervent workers 
in the Methodist Episcopal Church. The natural adaptability of the 
locality to the purpose has made it an unqualified success from the first, 
and the improvements made have robbed it of none of its original charm. 

169 



The spring, which is its greatest glory, possesses some fine medicinal 
properties, and this fact, together with the surroundings, naturally sug- 
gests the legend. 

NOTE VI. — A legend of the Miami tribes of the Indiana plains, 
and true according to the best evidence bearing upon the subject that 
the author has been able to obtain. 

NOTE VII. — This story is oft told and passes current for historical 
fact among the old scouts, trappers and hunters of the Wisconsin and 
Michigan woods, who got it direct from the Chippewa Indians, to which 
tribe it is credited. 

NOTE VIII. — This poem was occasioned by one of the saddest 
episodes ever recorded in the biographical history of Illinois. On 
Thursday, April nth, 1895, Prof. Wm. McAdams, accompanied only by his 
pointer dog, Cleopatra, set sail from Alton up the Mississippi for the 
inlet to Prairie Lake, on the Missouri shore, fifteen miles above, where 
a number of friends constituting the Pottawatomie Club, was encamped., 
enjoying a week's snipe shoot. His failure to arrive on Thursday night 
occasioned no alarm, as it was supposed that he had stopped at Portage 
des Sioux to delve in the Indian mounds there. But when, on Friday, his 
empty boat was found at Clifton, four miles above Alton, adrift, his 
friends apprehended the worst, and at once started a determined search 
which was headed by the Professor's sons, Clark and John, and was 
continued until Sunday afternoon, when the dog was found on a barren 
sandbar at the foot of Eagle's Nest Island, guarding a little bundle of 
personal effects. There was the mark of a boat's prow on the sand, and 
the Professor's tracks where he had stepped ashore, deposited his 
bundle, and returned to the water. That was all, but it was at once 
inferred that he had intended to spend the night on the island ; that 
in stepping fiom the boat he had so lightened it as to cause it to float 
out from shore, that he had followed incautiously, and gone over a reef. 
This supposition was confirmed on the following day, when his body, 
full clothed, was found with grappling lines in twelve feet of water a few 
yards out. His watch had stopped at 9:15 p. m., and so it was deducted 
that he went down to his fate at just 9 o'clock, on the night of April 11. 
The fact that he had spent his life largely in archaeological and geologi- 
cal research along the Mississippi, and that he lost his life while upon a 



170 



pleasure trip to join the Pottawatomie Club, of which he was President, 
led to the writing of this poem and its dedication to him by the club. 
Prof. McAdams was one of the most eminent scientists who have 
honored his profession in this country. He had charge of the Missouri 
geological display at the New Orleans World's Fair, and of the Illinois 
display at the Columbian Exposition, was Fellow of the Missouri and 
and National Academies of Science, and President of the Illinois 
Society of Natural History, and contributed more than any other man 
to the literature, of the sciences of geology, archaeology and anthro- 
pology, as pertaining to the Mississippi Valley. His remains repose in 
the family cemetery, at the old homestead, near Otterville, in Jersey 
County, 111. 

NOTE IX. — The landmark herein described is located on a promi- 
nent point of the Illinois bluffs, not many miles below Hamburg Bay, 
and is an object of wonderment of curious inquiry to all travelers up and 
down the Upper Mississippi. 

NOTE X. — The biographers of President Lincoln and General 
Shields have generally omitted to mention the fact of this sanguinary 
encounter between these two eminent Illinoisans, in the days of their 
youthful ardor, but the episode is nevertheless historically correct as 
here narrated, and there are some men yet living in the State who have 
a personal recollection of the incident. The Island in the Mississippi 
river, near Alton, 111., where the duelists met, is still pointed out to 
inquiring strangers. 

NOTE XI. — Written on the occasion of the first opening of the 
World's Columbian Exposition, at Chicago, in celebration of the 400th 
anniversary of the sailing of Columbus, upon the voyage which resulted 
in the discovery of America. 

NOTE XII. — This poem is a translation from the German of Mrs. 
Marie Raible, of this city. It is given as an example of many poems that 
the author has had the privilege of translating for Mrs. Raible, whose 
friendship he is proud to possess, and who is recognized as the second 
greatest writer of German poetry now living in America. The two suc- 
ceeding poems are taken from among many translations from various 
German authors. 

171 



NOTE XIII. — There is an old legend among the Germans of a 
fair island city situated somewhere near the mouth of the Rhine, which, 
one night, during a severe storm, disappeared beneath the waves. Now 
a magic light illumes the waters where the island went down, and 
often as the sun sinks beneath the western hills the mermaids in those 
submarine halls toll the bells in the old church tow T ers of the submerged 
city: and he who once sees this light and hears the solemn dirge of the 
bells is irresistibly drawn towards the spot, until the waves sweep over 
him and he sinks to the bottom. 

GENERAL NOTE. — The writer deems it his duty, as well as a 
pleasant privilege, to state, in conclusion of these comments, that while 
some of the poems herein published are printed for the first time, and 
many have been re-written and improved, he owes his introducton to 
the general public to the occasional appearance of much of his work 
in the Alton "Telegraph," "Sentinel-Democrat" and "Daily Republican," 
and to such magazines as "Home and Country," "Blue and Gray," 
"Outing," "The American Angler," "The Waterways Journal," "The 
National Journalist" and "The American Journal of Education." 



172 



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